HD 'Life, As Scheduled'
by tigersilver
Summary: Draco Malfoy has a plan to deal with his life at Hogwarts post the passing away of the Dark Lord: take care of his Prefect duties, finish his blasted Potions essay, shag Potter. Not necessarily in that specific order, maybe, but all three will be accomplished.
1. Chapter 1

1. Prefect Duties; 2. Potions essay; 3. Shag Potter.

Draco Malfoy had his evening planned out to the minute. It was straight-forward enough: perform his duties as Prefect, complete his Potions essay before that—a breeze, really, if he could manage a minute or two to concentrate—and, last but not least, shag Potter. Shagging Potter, naturally, was the task he'd choose to accomplish first if he'd his druthers, but no, it never worked out that way, not unless he made a special effort. Or if Potter did, and Potter was a busy man these days.

Still, they'd manage well enough. As always.

Thus, ten o'clock rolled around with his essay still unfinished and Draco shot off, wand in hand, robes whipping impressively, and stalked the stairways and corridors, empty classrooms and deserted open spaces, loos and broom closets for the space of an hour and a half. It was dull work, enlivened only occasionally by the chance to hex a stray Fifth or Sixth Year, or shoo an addled Firstie back to the fold, but Draco took pride in it, as well he should.

Being a Prefect wasn't always easy, of course. Potter hadn't made the cut, but then Draco figured Potter didn't care. A shiny badge wasn't his idea of a goal worth striving for, nor did the Prefect's bathroom present any sort of reward. Potter had the run of the latter in any case and for the former, he'd absolutely no interest in anything that would draw him yet more attention.

Malfoy could relate. Prefects were both examples and scapegoats, not only for the student body and the Governor's Board but also for those up-your-nose modern parents who insisted on being 'involved'. No doubt the Headmistress had chosen him specially just for that reason—to serve as a shining example of the New Age and InterHouse Unity and all that bunk. Though it wasn't bunk, really. Draco was for it—his Slytherins needed every scrap of support they could muster. And he didn't mind—he'd have to cope with these same people, out in the adult world, when Hogwarts finally spewed him forth, complete with a rack of 'O's in N.E.W.T.S. to his credit and the Headmistress's letter of recommendation. It would be a decided advantage to have that pretty little badge in his back pocket and Draco was all for advantages.

Potter, too, might be an advantage. Draco caught himself thinking that way all too often. Not when he and Potter were actually doing the nasty, of course, but later, in the privacy of his own room. Maybe he shouldn't; maybe it was callous, but, bugger all, he knew Potter's agenda wasn't hearts and flowers either, so why should he give a rat's arse?

He didn't, really.

It was simply a stress-reliever, this thing with him and Potter. Nothing more than the same energy they'd exerted all those years brangling with one another diverted in a different direction. More pleasure; less hassle. Draco was all for _that_. And he needed it tonight.

* * *

Harry ducked out of Gryffindor at a quarter till ten like a third-rate Muggle private detective, hunching his shoulders in his school robes and keeping his eyes down. He'd his cloak with him, naturally—couldn't go creeping 'round Hogwarts without it—but he didn't like to use it unless he had to and he wasn't going far.

As usual, they'd settled on meeting in the turret room above the tower where Fluffy had once been imprisoned, now restored—along with much else at Hogwarts—after a difficult and exhausting summer. Harry himself had been charge of most of the work done on the student's quarters, so he'd outfitted the slope-sided, circular hideaway with cushions and easy chairs, thick carpets and a long, comfy couch that easily Transfigured into a bed. He'd meant originally for it to be his own secret Withdrawing Room, but after starting the affair with Malfoy he'd found it easier to use it for their nearly daily assignations.

Malfoy had stared 'round the cosy angles and small-windowed spaces under the eaves, grey eyes very wide, then narrowed, and had pursed his lips in reaction when he'd first been invited in, and Harry had fully expected to hear him comment nastily on the colours, which were decidedly_ not_ Gryffindor. But he'd kept his peace, and seemed accustomed to it now, and seldom made mention of Harry's odd fondness for purple, yellow and green, or his odd collection of strangely shaped Muggle-made teapots. No—Malfoy's attention was usually on the violet-cushioned sofa-cum-four-poster, which he generally Transfigured to the bed-version the moment he slouched through the door, sometimes when Harry was still sitting upon it.

Harry was always early; Malfoy was always late. Prefect duties were usually done and over with by midnight, but never in the first term of the year. Then, the Firsties wandered like little lost sheep and the rambunctious Fourth Years stretched their boundaries by venturing out of their common rooms just before curfew. Mix in the Fifth and Sixth Years moving about on their own secret assignations—romantic or mischievous—and the regularly scheduled Astronomy classes, and it was chaos in the corridors for a good hour or so after the student body was supposedly officially retired to their own Houses for the evening. The Professors, the Adjuncts, the Proctors and some TA's too, all were out and about, taking points and keeping a weather eye on the Prefects as they went about their business, and then sometimes socializing in their own Commons or conducting some late evening research in the Library. Harry didn't envy Draco his duty, certainly, but it rather bollixed up their own personal shag schedule, and this had become a bit of issue in recent weeks.

It was going on halfway through October and they'd worked through the majority of kinks out of 'their' time, as Harry liked to think of it, but he still wasn't entirely sure the whole thing was a good idea, even if it kept his dick happy. Malfoy was fit, no question, and easily still the Prince of Slytherin, if not all Hogwarts—as they'd referred to him in the good old days, pre-Dumbledore's death—but there were other equally fit blokes to be had for the asking and Harry was well aware he'd open invitations bubbling on the hob from quite a few of them.

Justin Finch-Fletchley, for one; Michael Corner, for another. Theo Nott, who was Malfoy's unofficial runner-up in the 'cool blond Slytherin' category, and the very attractive Terry Boot, who most certainly batted for both teams. Geoff Hooper had also made advances, and Dennis Creavey had apparently inherited his love for 'all things Potter' from his elder brother. Then there was good old Ernie, who just never stopped asking. There were others, too, including several younger Slytherins and a Hufflepuff or five, but the first set only wanted one-offs and the notoriety of shagging Harry Potter and the second sort were all about 'relationships' and 'feelings'—_and _the notoriety of shagging Harry Potter. Harry had enough of one-offs over the summer and 'feelings' weren't something he cared to indulge in, thanks ever so.

He'd had enough of them to last a lifetime. He imagined Malfoy was much the same. Maybe that was one of the reasons they'd connected, though Harry really didn't waste time thinking about it. It'd happened; it seemed to be working out well enough and it was damned good shagging—for now. Later? Harry didn't deal with 'later', either.

He'd quite enough on his plate as it was.

* * *

Draco was a man on a mission: shag Potter and then finish his blasted essay, both preferably before one in the morning rolled around. He'd Arithromancy first thing in the morning after breakfast and no time during break due to mandatory Quidditch practice, so it was tonight for the essay or not at all and he didn't think the Slug would buy into him skiving only due to being a bit over-scheduled. And he didn't need a detention, not if he wanted to stay 'shiny', so…yeah. But first things first.

Hard to think about much of anything with his bollocks as they were. Would have to be 'Potter to the rescue' again; get him off before he burst, yeah?

And...he was learning to be flexible, wasn't he? Oh, yes.

"Oi, Potter!" he barked impatiently as he strode into Harry's not-so-secret room, banging the dor shut behind him. "Come on—budge your bum off that or I'll hex it and you, dumbarse—we're wasting time already."

"What?" Harry mumbled, half-asleep and drowsy. It was after midnight already and he'd nodded off after finishing his homework, waiting for the belated wanker currently ordering him about so imperiously. "_You_ sod off, Malfoy; you're lucky I'm still here."

"Yeah, yeah, come on, up," Draco grumbled, grabbing him by the arms and yanking him. Harry tottered a bit, off-balance on tired legs, and Malfoy wrapped an arm 'round Harry's back whilst waving his wand busily with the other. "There, that's it—clothes _off_, Potter," he snapped, and dumped his burden of weary Potter carelessly onto the mattress.

"Gods! But you're a fucking Nazi, Malfoy," Harry muttered, bouncing a bit, but he dutifully started to unbutton his shirt. "Take a bloody damper, eh?" He could Vanish it, but then why bother? It was late and he was tired—so much easier just to drop it on the floor.

"What's a Nazi, Potter?" Malfoy asked absently, whisking his wand down his front. Robes and underthings peeled away like magic and twinkled out of existence for the nonce. Potter caught sight of them neatly folding themselves just before he blinked. "Some sort of Muggle?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know." Harry skinnied out of his jeans—ones that fit, cheers; he'd gone shopping between bouts of conjuring stone blocks and lintels—and took his cotton pants with them. Socks next; he'd already toed off his trainers two hours before, when he'd first arrived. All that lot went on the floor as well. "Not nice."

"Yeah?" Malfoy said, climbing beneath the covers and casting a wordless warming spell on them. "Okay." He obviously didn't care that much. "Uh—you're ready, Potter?" He threw his wand down on the nightstand that had appeared along with the bed, and stuck a hand on Harry's shoulder to urge him along. "_I_ bloody well am."

"What's your hurry, anyway?" Harry shot back, feeling snippy and far too bare-arsed and chilly till Draco dragged him fully under the quilt. He shifted, settling in, and his lover nipped at his neck distractedly while answering, sliding the whole of his warm weight over Harry's body with practiced ease. Harry was pressed down firmly into the sheets—the one significant change Malfoy had made to Harry's hideaway, replacing regular Hogwarts-issue with some billion-count blend of silk or something.

_Nice_, Harry thought, and blinked up at the grey eyes peering curiously down into his own.

"That Potions essay, Potter," Malfoy frowned fiercely. "I'm not finished it yet and the Slug'll have my balls if I don't turn it in on time. Life's a bloody bitch."

"Oh?" Harry's eyebrows went up as he arched into Malfoy's seeking lips. Draco was always way far ahead of his game; something must've happened to him to get in the way. "What was the problem this time? Parkinson again? Or was it poor Pritchard?"

"Yeah, well." Malfoy grimaced, and licked up Harry's throat to his chin, clearly disgruntled. "Pansy. Her mum visited her dad over the weekend and had to go and Owl Pans a letter about it—blasted woman. Should be cursed with boils."

"Oh—sorry," Harry said, and meant it. "That's unfortunate." It was. He'd seen what her mum's Owls could do to Parkinson. Rather made him glad he didn't have parents, if that was the kind of shit they pulled. Not _his M_um, though—she wouldn't have; maybe his Dad would've, but then, Harry's Dad—he shut off that thought right there, as it wasn't worth it.

"She alright, then?"

"I guess," Draco muttered, having gotten to the corner of Harry's mouth. "Shut up and kiss me, Potter—I don't want to talk about this crap right now. Wanna fuck."

"'Kay—sorry," Harry replied equably enough, but Malfoy was already plunging in.

Draco groaned, pressing his cock into the soft-and-hard places of Potter's thighs and groin. It was met with a dick just as interested and a little rock of Draco's hips had them frotting.

This was the stuff Draco came looking for, night after night. Hot, wet, tight, and readily responsive—that was Potter. Inventive and easy. His mouth was bleeding heaven on earth and his tongue—oh, the tricks Potter could manage with his tongue! Left Draco half-blind and shouting out nonsense, sometimes, when it wound its way 'round his cock. Potter could speak fucking Parseltongue to Draco's body without making a sound.

Potter's arse, though—that was ace. Draco had never met an arse he couldn't put a good use to in the seven or eight months he'd been out from under his parent's collective thumbs, Wizard _or_ Muggleborn, but Harry's was hands-down the best arse ever. Potter knew how to flex his posterior muscles just so, making his innards ripple, and he had this habit of squeezing tight enough to strangle Draco's rod and then letting up on the pressure, nice and easy. Like a Muggle rollercoaster, Draco decided, and it had the same effect on him: he'd scream and scream till there was no sound issuing from his open lips, but it was still all thrill and no fear, riding Harry.

Potter could make Draco come like a firehose in just under a minute if he set his mind to it, even without his superior arse: he had the hands of an artist. Long fingers, with spatulate ends that were broad and just a little rough. Bony knuckles that slotted perfectly 'round Draco's shaft and a palm made soft and slick with sweat or lube, which was better than hot satin when it smoothed over him. Then there was that twist-to-the-wrist motion Potter had nailed, little wanker, and the sly pinky tickle to the 'nads that drove Draco fucking mad as a rabid Kneazle. Draco could ejaculate just picturing Potter jerking him pff, especially if he imagined Harry's mouth sucking him all the while, cheeks moving in and out rhythmically.

Potter was definitely ace.

Quality—that was what Malfoy craved. He knew he gave it himself, so why not expect it in return? He, too, could do things to Potter that made Potter scream like a friggin' girl, and he did, just so he could watch the effects. It was all tricks he'd picked up from other shags—he'd had a fair few of those, being a resourceful sort of chap —and refined endlessly on Harry, working the ones that were particularly potent into veritable art forms.

Nipples, for one. Harry liked his chest touched, so Draco developed a method of lipping and suckling, teething and nipping that sent a flush across the planes of Potter's chest like a flame, and left him restless and breathless thereafter. Then there were Draco's teeth, a fine weapon in his arsenal of passion, nice and white and straight-edged as razors. Draco liked to bite—sometimes hard, sometimes softly—and Harry didn't bother about marks or bruises, so Draco was in his heyday, leaving them. Love bites to thighs—those caused Potter to roll his hips and rock in this tidal motion which ate up Draco's ability to restrain himself like nothing else. Love bites to the throat made Harry whine with need, a guttural sound that had Draco harder as rocks every time; nipping Potter's sensitive earlobes sent him thrusting in need, flinging his whole body into it, the same as when he flew. Open-mouthed gnawing on arse-cheeks—followed by specific, angled licking—sent chaotic tremors through Potter's legs and rendered them floppy and boneless, easy to push level with Harry's head on the pillows. If Draco closed his teeth on Harry's full lower lip, Harry would groan and practically swallow Draco's tongue.

But the best thing Draco could do was suck face like a champion—and shag. Both done hard, just shy of painful, and with a nail-biting, steely-eyed determination; both done fast, like lightning strikes or the green pulse of an AK. Both steady, unceasing and deep, as if Malfoy were one of those funny pneumatic drills the Muggles used and Potter a wall that simply had to come down.

Brilliant it went both ways; Draco would hate to come in below Potter in the shag-stakes. Second-best was no fun, was it?

And Potter favoured those two particular talents of Malfoy's rather a lot, from all indications. Certainly he wasn't averse to meeting up with Draco on a nightly basis to enjoy them to the fullest, and certainly Draco wasn't going to be calling a halt to these assignations of theirs any time soon.

Wouldn't suit his purpose and his purpose was to survive this last year at school, faculties intact.

"Hey, Malfoy," Potter piped up later, when he donning the last of his clothes. Draco looked up from easing on his loafers and waited attentively, eyebrows up in question. Potter looked to be a little hesitant, standing where he was by a hastily conjured mirror, fingers fussing with his tie.

"Yeah?"

"You want mine? My essay. Could copy some of it over, change a few words up here and there. Slughorn'll give me full points no matter what I do at this point so, if you like—"

Draco opened his mouth to say 'no' immediately, but ended up hesitating, too. He'd gone and done practically the same exact favour for Potter just last week, covering his arse when Potter totally spaced his Charms assignment, so…

"Alright," he nodded. Then added a fast "Thanks, Potter," to be polite.

"Yes, sure, no problem," Harry replied easily enough, and bent down to shuffle the tangled laces on his trainers into loose knots, as he was only planning to take them off again in five minutes. "Let me find it for you."

He rummaged haphazardly through his bulging school satchel when he was finished with his shoes, pulling out the various Muggle organizers Hermione kept after him to use to keep track of his time, all his spare paper and quills, and eventually located the parchment entitled "Potions of Pain: A Brief History".

"Here," he said, handing it over. "Just have it back to me before class tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay." Draco nodded, glancing over the close-written lines. Potter's handwriting was a tad unkempt but readable enough. Draco nodded again at something Harry had jotted down. "Good. That works, right there, that paragraph you put in on Blistering Beetles. I can use what I've got already and just pull some of the gen on the Basilisk venom over—"

"Sure, do that," Harry shrugged. He flattened down his hair one last time and Vanished the mirror. "Whatever, Malfoy—take what you need. Catch up with me at lunch?"

"Right, right, thanks again, Potter," Draco replied over his shoulder, Potter's essay tucked up his sleeve for safekeeping and a swift hand already on the door knob. He was late enough as it was; no time to linger, chatting. He turned around again at the word 'lunch', though.

"No, wait—can't do lunch. I've got practice, so right after, alright? The old Forbidden Corridor, 'round quarter to one?"

Potter nodded over at him, blinking at brighter light beaming into his room from the corridor.

"Sounds fine; I'll be there. 'Night, Draco."

"'Night, Potter. Have a good sleep."

Striding back to Slytherin, Draco wondered why he bothered wishing Potter pleasant dreams. It wasn't as though...and it would never be. Not like that.

This was stress relief. For both of them, and 'pleasant dreams' weren't part of the picture.

But...he could be polite, at least. May as well, right? It never hurt to make nice, not these days.

* * *

Harry yawned his way through COMC and then through Muggle Studies, his morning classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and the only ones he didn't share with Malfoy—two easy 'O's in N.E.W.T.S. they were, so who the fuck cared? Hagrid would never give him grief and the new Muggle Studies prof was a bloody walkover and neither of those classes meant a hill of Beans to Harry in the normal course of events. Not much did, really. Well…Hogwarts itself, he supposed. Mostly he was numb.

Hermione said it was 'reaction' and that it was alright. Ron said pretty much nothing, but Ron was a bit off himself. His losses had run deep, after all. Hermione had her hands full there, keeping Ron focussed on the future and not letting him dwell overmuch. Harry told himself he was glad of it, those two being together. He didn't have the energy to prop Ron up, too, not when he had enough to do keeping his own body upright and moving basically forward.

Harry's soggy brain woke up finally just before DADA, which he got through easily enough, partnering with an on-the-ball Malfoy, and then it was lunch time, which meant copious food and normally also meant a quick snog with that same Malfoy before Transfiguration, but didn't today.

"Oh, yeah," he said blankly to his roast beef sandwich, chops, veg and mash with gravy. "Bugger."

Hermione only glanced over at him with a strange expression and refrained from remarking. She was used to his new habit of talking to himself, though Harry was not. The Dursleys had always said the people who talked to themselves were nutters and Harry wasn't quite ready to label himself a loony, at least not by Muggle standards.

He avoided labelling himself as anything, much, now that Voldemort was gone.

He went to the Library instead, returning some books and scanning the titles in Charms for some references he needed for their next project, and then eventually wandered down rather desultorily to what had been the Forbidden Corridor but was now just another short-cut through the building, Point A to Point B. Still deserted, though; memories ran long at Hogwarts.

Malfoy was running late, as always.

"Um," Harry said. "Hi."

"Hey!" Draco answered, breathless from jogging and handing over the borrowed Potions assignment first thing. Harry stuffed it into his bag in a rush and looked up to meet that familiar gaze, green eyes a little wary. "Erm?"

"Sorry—practice ran over," Draco humped a shoulder, which brought him significantly closer to Harry somehow, and dropped his own bookbag with a quiet little thud. Harry pulled a face, shuffling back towards the nearby wall. "Didn't mean to make you wait, Potter."

"'S'okay, I'm used to it." Harry leant back against the wall and flapped a hand at Malfoy. It wasn't as though he couldn't live without this.

"Yeah?" Malfoy's lips were already ghosting over Harry's, just lightly. "Hmm." He bit Harry's lower lip, coaxing it out of its unconcious pout. "Well, I'm—"

There was a quick kiss placed round Harry's jaw to punctuate each word.

"Still—"

And another. Harry grinned, a bit helplessly, under them. Sometimes Malfoy was pretty fun to hang out with.

"Sorry."

"Mmm, m'okay..." Harry moaned, a quiet sound which perversely had Draco groaning much more loudly than he and saying his name.

"_Potter_."

Names, and mostly surnames names was all they uttered then. And that was sum total said aloud by either of them for about the next twenty minutes after. Till Harry remembered the schedule.

"We should go." He bopped Draco on the nose with a hard forefinger in passing, reminding him of the time. "We'll be late, for certain. Prof'll flip his wig on us."

"In a minute," Draco replied, still snogging away peaceably. "It's only right around the corner, Harry."

"_And_ down the stairs—mmph!"

Five minutes after, sure enough, they were running pell-mell, late again, bags flapping madly behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

Running, running for Potions, afraid of a detention. It was the last time they were just boys, together, but neither of them realized that.

* * *

Malfoy was alright, Harry figured, but he wasn't—_it _wasn't quite enough. Enough of what, exactly, Harry wasn't certain. There was plenty of shagging, and snogging, and the like, but not much else. Not that he wanted much else, 'cause that all meant 'relationship' and that was a filthy, dirty word in Harry's limited emotional vocabulary.

But something. He wasn't getting _something_, and maybe it was time to experiment.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco had never thought himself as a jealous chap, or even an overly possessive one. Harry changed that, in the blink of an eye. One look at him wrapped around Ernie MacMillan in the newly repaired Conservatory and Draco was a changed man.

Or, at least, a different man. A darker one, all Light eclipsed.

An evil bastard of a man, with a scheme to force Harry away from all those other blokes, the ones who panted after him endlessly, and all the bints, too. It was the plan of a thoroughly rotten git, one with a skewed moral compass and questionable ethics, and one which could only be accomplished by a fellow knowledgeable in both Dark Arts and Potions. Intimately.

By blood and by nature, Draco realized; he _was_ territorial.

It must a measure of his own craving for Harry's body that he'd never once suspected it.

It wasn't even that he was a Slytherin, though that certainly contributed to the complexity. Slytherins weren't, by nature, evil or bad or Dark, but they were crafty and they were deep as houses.

It wasn't even the Malfoy sense of entitlement. Draco'd always been highly possessive of the things he favoured, but this went well beyond it. He worried, ever so briefly, he'd approached the raging madness of his poor doomed Father, beguiled by power, with this overweening desire—and then ventured beyond it. Except instead of Death, the snuffing of existence, he'd give Life. He'd mete out Harry's future in such as way that would always leave Draco in control of it.

It was stupidly simple, Draco's grand plan. Almost as easy as badges.

Simple, blindingly, beautifully simple. He'd have Harry up the bum in a winking; get him saddled with Malfoy child and then see how he liked it, the little twat. No more Ernies nor Justins, nor Weasleyettes, ever. They'd be tied for life, he and Harry, and no one—but no one—would ever be able to break that particular bond, not even Harry.

Especially not Harry.

And Harry would be Draco's, for ever after. For Life.


	4. Chapter 4

It went off like a bomb, a huge Muggle one, buried deep in the desert so its destruction would be muted.

It resounded through Draco as he crafted his Potion and committed the accompanying spell to memory later that night.

The tidal wave of its wake drove him when he casually confronted Harry after supper in the Great Hall the following day and maneuvered him skillfully into meeting in 'their' room after his Prefect duties were over.

It released fumes of hatred and intensity quite strong enough to kill a man when Draco backed Ernie MacMillan into a convenient alcove in the rear of the Library and threatened him with instant death should he ever so much as breathe in Potter's vicinity again.

It throbbed through his veins as Draco dutifully did his schoolwork and hugged Pansy tight before escorting her off to the safe care and Calming Draughts of Madame Pomfrey for the remainder of the evening.

Its edge was like a stropped bright razorblade when he scolded two Fourth Year Ravenclaws snogging on the Tower during rounds and took twenty points each with an exacting decisiveness.

It pushed him up the winding steps and made his fist clench tense an white-knuckled on the knob of the door that led to Harry's secret room, and it stopped his breath in his throat at the sight of Harry sprawled asleep and trusting on the Salazar-cursed stupid violet-coloured sofa.

Perfect.

Couldn't be more perfect, Draco decided, with a little thrill of vicious, mean-hearted excitement trickling cold up his spinal cord.

This would show Potter, it would. No one dared fuck over a Malfoy, not like that.

The Potion was made to evaporate and be inhaled, with no lingering fumes or odours. The spell could be used silently and wandlessly: a simple incantation, only seventeen syllables. Harry would never know what had walloped him until it was far too late—far too late.

He'd never realize, being Muggle-raised. He'd be glad; he'd be amazed. And then he'd be Draco's, for Harry was a staunch Gryffindor, an orphan many times over, and 'family' was the be-all and end-all, the ultimate gift Draco could give him. It was totally unselfish, really, what he planned—Draco's burbling, seething mind could twist it that way, if he concentrated.

Stayed on task.

And why did it feel like an Unforgiveable, then?

He unstopped the vial, briefly shutting his eyes. When next he looked Potter would be ready—and randy—and willing.

Just the way Draco wanted him.


	5. Chapter 5

Afterwards, lying dry-eyed and blinking into the never-quite-darkness that was Hogwarts at night, Draco knew he'd been successful. The Potion had taken, his silent incantation perfection incarnate.

There was no going back now.

Harry had felt actually something when the spell took effect, a jolt of sorts—his eyes had widened—but he'd been so blissed out, he'd not paid any real attention…and Harry had been vaguely distracted in any event, these last few days.

These days; Draco cursed himself. These fucking days. Where had his head been?

And not just…gods, possibly longer than that; Draco told himself he'd not noticed Potter's strange mood swings and continual small blips into Nowheresville, but _he _did. He did—had. He noticed _everything_—excepting Harry's recent carnal interest in MacMillan. That had slipped by Draco's net and, for the life of him, he couldn't imagine how.

He simply couldn't imagine how.

It wasn't Draco's usual, to allow an insult of that stature slip by. It wasn't tolerable, being cheated on, when there were readily available ways to nip the problem in the bud. Or simply end it. Let bygones be bygones. Get it over...a bad show and no skin. It wasn't as though he'd not done this before.

But, no. Not ready for that. The sex was too damned good. Potter was too damned…Potter, that was it.

Draco figured he must've been distracted, that was all. Distracted, and then not expecting it. Not from a Gryffindor, not from Potter. But Potter was a squirmy git these days; one never knew which way he'd jump. Had been a bit beneficial, that squirreliness; had led to them shagging, two young bloods, in need of release, finding it together…but yet.

Fucking _cheating_? Sod that. And then the whole meaning to do it, from the start; deliberate? Oh, hell, no. Wasn't part of the show, no how and no way. He wouldn't put up with this, wouldn't take it laying down, no.

No, Potter deserved everything Draxo meted out. He deserved everything he got. He'd earned it, fucking Draco over with MacMillan, and there were rumours of others, too, now that Draco was listening. Really listening, ear to the ground.

Fuck Potter, fuck him. He should be pleased to be handed what he'd always wanted—a family. Draco would make sure to give him one, ready or not. Draco would ensure he'd no recourse, either.

And he would, at that; no, sod it, he had. Potter didn't know it, of course, but Draco did. All the Old Ways, and the reach they still had, tenuous but strong. The eldest of Magics, the very best, all concentrated on producing the next generation of Wizards. There was no going against that, Muggle-raised prodigy or no.

Still, only a matter of time now, and Draco's wish would be completely fulfilled: Potter, the great squeamish ninny, tied down for good and all.

And…fuck the Aurors corps and Potter's stupid plans to join up. He was due for a fall. He was overdue to be taken down a notch, and his bloody sycophants with it.

Draco, satisfied, smiled ferally into the blanketing darkness and wondered if old Headmaster Dumbledore knew what he'd gone and done to his Golden Boy. If the great man floated there at Hogwarts bodiless, safe enough in the Great Hereafter, and was cursing his old student heartily all the while.

"Sod you, old man," he mouthed, sinking carefully into the cushy violet bed Potter was so fond of, inordinately fond of. Gripping at the lax body of Potter, already asleep and curled up, taking him into arms and by shins wrapping and whatnot. "He's mine now. Leave off. You can't have him."


	6. Chapter 6

"Hey, Harry," Ernie smiled tentatively, sidling up to Harry outside the Games shed. "What's with Malfoy? Here I thought you were a free agent and then he nearly took my head off at the nub the other day. What's up with that?"

"Pardon?" It was news to Harry. "Ma—Draco did?" His eyes widened as he shoved his slipping specs up his nose. "Hold up." Practice had been a bit brutal, what with Ron's noodle-brained state, and he'd been called upon by Ginny to act as de facto captain. "Wait—Draco did what, now?"

"Told me to fuck off, in no uncertain terms, or he'd have my bollocks for ingredients," Ernie replied easily enough, flipping up a hand. "Said you've been seeing him all this time and no one else was to so much as touch you; basically threw a major strop at me, he did—both barrels." He frowned at Harry curiously. "Which isn't what you said to me, mate. I don't understand. Why'd you go and have that snog with me anyway, if you're already knocking knees with Malfoy?"

"I am _not_ knocking knees with Malfoy!" Harry was momentarily enraged—until it struck him that was a lie, and an outright lie at that. He glanced away, guiltily. "Er…well, I've been, yes, but it's not—it's not serious, Ernie. It was just some fun, is all. So, what in the devil's stuffed up his fancy arse all the sudden? He knows that. We're not dating, never have been."

"Yeah?" Ernie wrinkled up his good-natured nose. "Huh, Harry. All I can tell you is he seems to think a bit differently. Maybe you should get that sorted; give me a tap on the shoulder when you do."

He darted forward, closing the short difference between them and ruffling a fast hand through Harry's sweaty hair, bussing him quick as a wink on the flushed cheek in passing.

"It's not like I won't still be interested, yeah? See you round, mate. And—yeah, er. Good luck with it."


	7. Chapter 7

"Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck, oh—fuck!" Harry screamed, back arching straight off the mattress. His bent knees nearly threw Draco off his easy rhythm when they slammed into his shoulders. "Do it, do it!"

"…Not a bad effort," Malfoy smirked at him, after. "And you told me you were fagged out. You drink a Pepper-Up when I wasn't looking, then?"

"Sod off, you," Harry mumbled, rolling to one side, disentangling his legs and their general stickiness with a bit of languid effort, "and spell me a Scourgify. Gods, but you're heavy."

"Mmm." Malfoy did, sitting up abruptly and Accio'ing his clothes from where he'd sent them. "Yes, well. Must rush off, sorry. Slug tipped me the wink he'd be sending round that idiot assistant of his, the one with the lazy eye—Prickwell? He's an arse to ends all arses and you know I can't afford to be caught out now, Potter. Ruin my sterling track record."

"Mnphh," Harry grunted, face first in a pillow and not budging. "…'kay."

Malfoy poked him in the ribs, familiarly.

"You should head back to your dorm too, Potter. Not even the Golden Boy's exempt from detention. You know McGonagall's rules."

"Nuurrr…." Harry didn't bother replying. No one would find him in his hidey-hole; no other Gryff would dare rat him out as MIA, either. "Nhm."

"Right, yeah, okay—don't listen to sense, twit." Draco tapped the arch of one of Harry's bared feet with a teasing fingertip, tickling it with a lazy fingertip as he left their bed. "Stay here, then. See if I care."

He was by the door before Harry finally remembered.

"…Hey?"

"What?" Harry heard the thunk of a weighted satchel against a hipbone as Draco twisted 'round to look his way, likely impatiently. He was always snippy when threatened with delay, Harry knew.

A real stick-up-the-arse, Malfoy.

"MacMillan?" Harry finally decided to open his eyes as he flopped, onto his back and blearily, peering myopically across the distance. "Ernie MacMillan."

"Yes? What about him, Potter?"

Not by the slightest hint did Malfoy reveal he'd dealings with Ernie lately. Nor that those dealings had involved distinctly detailed descriptions of the pain he planned to inflict should poor Ernie trespass.

It was infuriating, and Harry would be feeling it even more so…if only he weren't quite so wrung dry by a good shagging. As it was, he contented himself with scowling heavily in the general direction of the door.

"Look. About Ernie." Malfoy was a blur, but Harry could make out the smirk, at least. Malfoy's smirks were always evident: a smile meant to irk. "What did you say to him, exactly? Because what he told me you said was a total load of bol—"

"Nothing that wasn't the truth, Potter," Malfoy shot back in a clipped tone, the hazy lines of his blandly amused expression hardly changing. "But don't try pulling that shit again on me or it'll be worse for whomever it is you fancy you can cozy up with on the side. I don't care to share. Not sanitary."

"Oi, Malfoy!" Harry was provoked into struggling up on his elbows, floppy as his bones still felt, and summoning up a champion glare. "Ugh! Come back here and face me, will you?" He sent the glare winging towards its victim and hoped like hell the grabby bastard flinched under the burn of it. "And fuck off, can't you? I'm not your goddamned property! Don't you go about telling people I am, either."

"…No?" Malfoy's supercilious twist of lips never slipped; even a temporarily blinded Harry could make that bit out. He didn't budge from the door, either, the rude bastard. "Right, no. All apologies, Potter, but I beg to differ. I don't dip my wick where others have been. Bit barbaric, that. Suggest you take your pointy little head out of your arse and find your manners, then. Clearly you don't know the rules."

"Wha—? _Manners_, Malfoy? Whatever are _you _going on about, _my_ manners? And what 'rules'? Fuck your rules! Since when d'you have any say over what _I_ do?"

Harry swung his legs over the side of the mattress and strode half the distance to the exit, starkers, hands clenching into fists at his side, kneecaps still a bit wobbly beneath him. He was one short step away from diving for his wand and hexing Malfoy with boils for impertinence.

"Oh," Malfoy chuckled, rich and dark and deep. "I would say a great deal more than you'll ever even imagine, Potter."

"Hell, no! _I'm _not the one going about claiming we're a fucking item, Malfoy. We just shag—that's all we do, alright? All we ever have done! So fuck you, I'll do what I want, thanks. And snog whom I want, too!"

"Will you now?" Malfoy sniffed.

"Yes!"

"Right." Malfoy's voice was icy but the twat kept right on with that creepy half-smile; it never changed, even Harry's impaired vision could substantiate that. "Again, I disagree, but." He bobbed his chin, but it wasn't the slightest bit in reconciliation. "It's late; I don't have time for this now, Potter. Going, thanks. Catch you later."

"But!?"

"See you. Pleasant dreams, then."

"You can't just leave now, you arse!" Harry roared, doubly infuriated because Malfoy's stupidly smirking face was still a blurry blob to him and his specs weren't flying to his fingers readily when he snapped them. And he needed them desperately; needed to see what Malfoy's smile was really saying. Needed to look him in the eyes and really see. "And you can't walk about telling people total shit about us, either. I won't have it!"

"But you'll find I can, Potter." Malfoy's tone was all silk-and-polish; it had the instantaneous effect of tightening Harry's clamped jawbone to the point of crackling against his skull. "And will, if I choose. And yes, I am going. Now, even; it's after midnight by rather a lot—my own bed's calling out to me. Suggest you have a little kip, too, yeah? You're obviously over-tired."

He opened the door wide to the deserted corridor and Harry forcibly stuffed back the imprecations and arguments dancing on the tip of his tongue. There was no need to court notice, not at this late date.

His Room was secret. He wanted it kept that way, cheers.

"Mmm, overwrought, more like," Malfoy added, with a decided nod and a grim once-over. "Get your kit on and be off to bed now, like a good little Gryff. Later, Potter." But..he paused for a pregnant second, one foot out, one foot in. "And, as I mentioned? Pleasant dreams to you."

"Fuck off!"

"Huh, not likely."

Pale eyes flashed with a dazzlingly malevolent gleam as Malfoy pulled the door gently behind him and Harry snarled wordlessly at the empty space where he'd just been, the imperturbable prat.

The impossible, irritating, _assuming_ prat! Who in the bloody fuck did Malfoy think he was, anyway? Who'd upped and died and crowned _him_ Minister of Bloody Magic?

"Geh!"

_This is war_, Harry concluded abruptly, glowering down at his own goose-pimpling skin, still damp and tacky to the touch with the remains of their shagging, his and Malfoy's. Yes, outright war—as no one, but no one, told Harry Potter what he could or couldn't do.

Not now, not never again.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry, for whom things had been wonky and then _wonkier_, for months upon months—since the previous May, or possibly longer still—clued in that things were really and totally bollixed up within two weeks, three days and eight hours or so of that decisive shag with Malfoy.

He was working. Working Magic, to be precise. They all spent their weekends working, he and the others, putting Hogwarts to rights.

'Decisive', in that there had been make-up sex after. In the rebuilt Shack, at noontime, unexpectedly. Hot and sloppy.

Harry, a bit beleaguered by captaining Quidditch, Ron's recurrent nightmares and maintaining a grade level average high generally expected for an Auror candidate, had rather naturally forgotten all about Ernie's promise in the midst.

He'd even passed by on Malfoy's odd little bout of overt possessiveness. Malfoy was an odd duck; of course he had issues. Little psychic breaks. It happened. Didn't they all?

No, but…he was getting some; life was alright. If there was some ingredient gone missing in his life, some ingredient that had never been and he couldn't have called out for the life of him, well, he didn't have the time to give a shrivelfig.

It was only that he'd buggered up a simple Wingardium Leviosa, dropping a three foot section of broken statuary on his foot and then ended up in the Infirmary, Malfoy flying in on his heels not fifteen minutes later. Madame had still had her wand raised on high, having just finished a set of routine diagnostics, followed by a second, faster, much shorter series, that one accompanied by a seriously puzzled frown and much unhappy head-tilting. Followed by:

"Harry, you're pregnant. You're…carrying, my boy," she announced baldly. "Erm. A baby. Congratulations."

Harry keeled before he righted himself, wiped clean of all healthy colour. Hermione shrieked. Ron bit his lip till it bled and sobbed, once, dry and hard.

It was awful.

It was…true.

Madame Pomfrey was in the midst of carefully, cautiously advising Harry of the proof of this finding, and Hermione and Ron, too, as they were there dancing attendance and would not—would not—go, though he begged them; all three of them pale, owl-eyed and speechless to the point of gasping when Malfoy appeared like a bolt of an old god's wrecked vengeance, having galloped straightaway from the greenhouses where he'd been toiling away, Reparo'ing the damaged panes, and panting like a foam-blown Granion, he was so utterly winded.

"Potter? Potter!"

"—now a normal first pregnancy, Harry, and especially at your age, is quite rough on the Wi—"

All Hell, appropriately enough, proceeded to break loose.

"How is he? How's Harry? Is he alright?" Malfoy demanded first of Pomfrey; then, having caught the ghost of the weighty word 'pregnant' floating aimlessly about in the atmosphere, a lead balloon in a china shop, he swiveled his wild grey eyes to Harry's horrified face and promptly sank his bum down on a convenient nearby cot.

"Fuck," he groaned to the resulting resounding silence, his red face buried in his clenching, flexing hands, lank sweaty hair spilling down all around them. "Just fuck."

Ron sobbed, again.

"This is…" Draco breathed into his fisted hands, doom riding hard on his heels. "This is not how…"

"_Boys_," Madame intoned, and the word was spoken in such a way that Draco, for one, never wanted to hear again in his lifetime. It was said in the exact same timbre she'd used to list off the recent dead, the Morning After.

"Boys, you have something to tell me?"


	9. Chapter 9

"I hate you," Harry said, and meant it. They'd been left alone by main force, Madame ushering Hermione and Ron out with a word and two fingers pinching Ron's earlobe when the word didn't work. Hermione went with a stifled sob and a glance back at Harry which even a scoffing Draco could decipher easily: pity.

Harry was fucking _piteous_, because Draco had shagged him, was it? Because Draco had impregnated him. They were going to have a fucking baby and Draco's role in it epitomized all the most poisonous aspects of Slytherin.

No, _evil_. Draco was already typecast as scum, rubbish and unworthy. He thinned his lips and eyed Potter warily. Intentions: he'd a cartload of pavers made of the pesky things, and no clear road to lay them down.

"I fucking well hate you," Harry said again, his voice dangerously calm. "Get out."

No, wrong again. There was always a way when there was a will for it. Draco had wanted Potter, by hook or by crook, and he'd have him—_had him_.

But…he didn't have him now.

"No," Draco replied miserably, hands scrabbling across his lap. He didn't dare reach out to touch Harry. "No, Potter. Look—"

"I don't want to hear it; I don't want to hear anything from you ever again, Malfoy." Harry was relentless, expression-free and deathly serious. "Get out of this room, now. Please."

"I meant to—I wanted to—Harry."

Draco fumbled for the proper words, which didn't seem to exist. He'd been jealous, so terribly jealous and he couldn't just up and cut down Harry for betraying him—they weren't even together— so he'd done the only thing he could think of—revenge. Cold-blooded revenge. Enlightened, though, with a purpose, a higher one.

He'd bloody well go to his grave swearing it was 'higher', that.

"Mr Malfoy."

And he might very well find himself in his grave much earlier than anticipated:

"Harry has requested you go, Mr Malfoy," Madame said coldly, from the doorway. She'd her wand trained steadily upon Draco, level with his heart. He looked up, startled. "Please do; he needs his rest, various nourishing potions, and a complete absence of your histrionics at this moment. He's enough of his own to cope with, I daresay. We'll sort out your specific part in this matter later, Mr Malfoy, but for now, please. Leave."

One more glance Harry's way and Draco went, slamming the Infirmary door behind him in a temper.


	10. Chapter 10

From that moment, Draco Malfoy ceased to exist for Harry Potter.

He lived, prospered and even thrived academically—indeed, Draco went about blankly doing all exact the things he'd done before, excepting_ the one_, in no way hampered by the fact that he'd just permanently destroyed, once and for all, the life of the Wizarding world's Saviour. Ron Weasley did _not_ murder him; Hermione Granger did _not _slap him and not a peep was heard regarding detentions or suspensions or an outright expulsion from the likes of Madame Pomfrey, the Headmistress or Professor Slughorn, Head of Slytherin House.

But he didn't exist.

Or rather, he existed in a void, of his own making and of Potter's, and there was no way clear to fix it.

It bit deep, the irony. Oh, he'd succeeded; all well and good. Potter was with his child. But he'd buggered up his last mad plan of revenge on Harry Potter something fierce, Draco had, and he was well aware of it every moment, waking or sleeping.

It ate at him—ate, ate, ate.

Harry, in the meantime, returned to classes but not to the reconstruction effort. His other friends took up his slack, and Draco as well, without complaint. Though he, it seemed, was never assigned a partner outside of his own House or Hufflepuff. And Potter was no longer paired automatically with Draco in Potions, nor DADA, nor any other class, though that had been the norm for some months. He did not glance over at the Slytherin table during mealtimes, ever. He appeared just the same as usual to the eyes that watched him furtively. Perhaps a smidgeon paler, and maybe less frenetically energetic or perhaps a dram more apathetic, but he still laughed stupidly at Weasley's feeble jokes and ate up his meals—mostly.

It was infuriating.

"Fuck you," Draco muttered, fairly often and out of the blue, now and again startling some poor Slytherin Firstie. Or Prickwell, the arse.

"Fuck _you_, Potter. We'll just see about that."

Harry's tower hideaway was locked, warded and as unapproachable as the Room of Requirement had been. Wishing would not open it, nor any spell Draco could hurl. He tried even to remove the hinges by using a Muggle screwdriver one night and was unsuccessful. There was no way in, and not a sound emanated through the thick door, though Draco could swear Harry retreated there still.

He'd slump before it nightly and hope the violently Victorian violet sofa still existed. He'd fond memories of that hideous thing.

As for what he did with all his free time, now that he wasn't meeting up with Potter, Draco spent it in the Restricted Section, researching the ramifications of what he'd done, and how to mitigate it.

It was blindingly obvious, the immediate result of impregnating a Wizard.

There'd be pain—male Wizards were not hardwired for carrying a child, nor birthing one—and there'd be a drain to Potter's Magical self for the entire term of the pregnancy. He'd need all those supplementary Potions Madame referenced, and no undue strain placed upon him, and a Healer knowledgeable in the field.

He'd need. Potter would need.

_Pain_, Draco thought, and couldn't get 'round that one word. Pain.

It filled the sheltering void, shattered the deep freeze his chest cavity had become and left him flinching.

Harry, in pain.

Harry _and_ pain.

The Restricted Section was perfectly acceptable for an academic setting, but Draco required more. He Apparated home from Hogsmeade three weeks after he'd been shunned, and holed himself up in the Manor's library all weekend.

His Mum had something to say about that. Of course.


	11. Chapter 11

"Pain," Narcissa Malfoy confirmed. "Oh, it was painful, darling. Terribly. Childbirth is, you know."

No, Draco did not know. But he'd a damned better concept than ever before thanks to his recent bout of concentrated research, cheers.

He'd been dragged out of his fervid studies by main force of guilt, an emotion he now understood a great many of the nuances of, and been compelled to spill the whole sorry tale. His mother, other than thinning her lips to a dreadfully narrow red line and casting him a single speaking glance, had not said a word against what he'd done to Potter—nor his tactics.

That was quite the relief; Draco had no justifications to provide. He'd mucked it up, and was paying for it, and now Potter was paying for it, and there was no way out. It was hopeless.

It didn't matter, his motivation. His reasons. Sorry, sad, bedraggled things they were.

His mother, though…_his_ mother was famous for having the very last word, the definitive one.

"However—and you do recall your cousin Marc was the bearer for his and David's child? The deLisles, darling, you remember them from holidays—there are yet palliatives."

"Are there?" Draco jumped at it; trust his mother to be familiar. She knew every detail, tiny and large, of the family's history.

"Yes, of course, darling," Narcissa treated him to a hint of a condescending sneer. "And your Harry will want them. The best of the best of ingredients, naturally."

"Please. Yes."

"You'll be brewing tonight, then, I imagine. And I'll Owl Headmistress directly, Draco. She will need to be informed we Malfoys are actively…" She paused significantly, eyeing Draco's thinner frame and sober mien up and down quickly. She spared him a fractional smile, all maternal interest glossed over by a skin of disappointment, and it was a bit frightening, that. Excepting, Draco was well beyond being cowed by a mere flicker of emotion crossing anyone's face, even his own mother's. "Taking an interest."

"Potter, he," Draco mimicked his mother's tight-lipped, pinched-nostrilled expression, all unaware. He blinked slowly at his Mother. "Potter will not like it. He'll be furious—more furious than he is, actually. If that's even possible."

"Hmm, I daresay." Not for nothing had this woman lied through her teeth to most horrid Wizard in existence. She looked to her son with an odd mixture of exasperation, disapproval and doting fondness, cocking her fair head in ready challenge. "He will, at that. And you'll bear the brunt of it, dearest, as you've earned it, every blow. But that's no reason not to ensure he's more comfortable. You agree."

"No," Draco allowed miserably. "It isn't. Please, Mum. Whatever may be done, do it."


	12. Chapter 12

They must have rehearsed it, Draco thought fleetingly, as Weasley and Granger neatly slotted themselves onto his either side, taking up the flanking positions Crabbe and Goyle owned, once.

Potter, he noticed, had been waylaid by Thomas, the tall handsome bloke who sometimes was broadcaster for Quidditch.

"Well?" he said, after several beats of silence and a fair amount of rough downhill ground had been covered on the way to Creatures lecture. "What did you want, then?"

"We've noticed," Granger sent him a sidelong look, assessing, and a smile, very toothy, "you've left Harry be these last two weeks, Malfoy. Mostly."

"Why is that, we wonder?" Weasley took up his part in what was looking to be a straight-out old-style police interrogation with the ease of a veteran flyfisher, netting a particularly quiescent salmon. He treated Draco to an icy-blue eyeball roll. "If the rumour is true you went so far as to threaten poor Ernie with certain death for a passing snog."

"Fuck—"

"Turned off, are you? Running scared, perhaps?" Granger's tone was soft and very arch, but the gleam in her eyes was stone cold as a river rock. "Maybe that's it, we thought. As now you've gone and mucked up the rest of his life, Malfoy, haven't you? And now you've maybe been landed with the upkeep of an infant you didn't expect? Daunting prospect."

"Or…is it," Weasley bent his head just slightly as he paced, and Draco was provided a supernova glare as the blue went all fiery, "you're just biding your good old time now, waiting to step back in again and fuck with Harry some more once the initial cloud's blown over? Could be."

"Fuck off," Draco replied succinctly, shifting his book bag strap on one shoulder and quickening his pace. "None of your business, Gryffindorks, so just fuck off."

"No, don't think so, sorry," Granger gave him an impish grin. Or a scary facsimile of one, rather. "We're of the opinion it's more than time someone called you out on what you've done to Harry, Malfoy. You can't just waltz around here unmolested for it."

Draco snorted. "I didn't do shit to Potter, Granger—not a damn thing he didn't go along with from the get-go, that is. So—as I've just said, loud and clear and twice now—fuck the hell off."

"Still, and you know?" Weasley, who'd been squiffy and strange since term started, had a bit of his old gumption back, it seemed. He looked to be feeling honestly belligerent again, in place of that disturbingly lost expression he'd worn for the longest time now. "We know Harry, you see? Know him very well, after all these years." He flapped an elbow for emphasis. "So, yeah, mate—odds are good he wanted it, whatever you two have been getting up to between you. He doesn't do things he doesn't want, Malfoy—not nowadays. So…"

"Huh," Draco sniffed. "That's all very fascinating, Weasley, but didn't I just tell you to fuck off? Why don't you, in fact; we've almost arrived. You hardly want to be seen chatting up the likes of me, do you?"

And they were, too. Nearly there, with just a short path left ahead to tread. Ahead of them he could see Thomas literally escorting Potter across the Hut's rustic old threshold, a sight that set his back teeth to grinding. No one touched Potter like that, not right under his nose, and got off scott-free. No one.

"_So_," Granger, undeterred, murmured in his ear as the three of them shouldered past a gaggle of giggling girls—Ravenclaws, Draco noticed, plus one of his own Slytherins. Greengrass, was it? "Knowing Harry, we thought we'd do you the favour of asking you a few questions first before we hexed you to oblivion, Malfoy. It's only—"

"Courtesy." Weasley bared his teeth on Draco's other side, nodding absently to Longbottom in passing. "Polite, yeah? Yes, polite—that's the way of it."

"That's what you're calling this—courtesy? Huh!" Draco halted abruptly, standing very tall indeed and casting a fierce hot glare from one to the other of them, Potter's nosy old mates. Perforce they paused as well, and Granger tipped her chin up to match his narrowed and pointy stare with one of her very own.

"You see?" she said airily. "It's a new regime, Malfoy, or haven't you noticed? Bygones be bygones and all that rot. But it doesn't mean you can expect to torment Harry like you used to—chase after him and worry at his heels like a little dog."

"_Fuck_ you," Draco interjected darkly. "Not his dog, Granger. Far from it."

"Whatever, Malfoy; just saying. And saying too that getting a chap up with child is a great deal more serious than covering them with boils and knocking them off their brooms in a match. You're not stupid, either—you know all that, don't you? We've watched you toe the line; play the perfect little Prefect. A little too perfect, if you ask me."

"It's a little funny, isn't it, Malfoy?" Weasley's turn again, and yes, but he was definitely back on his game. He looked lively, as he hadn't for ages. And he looked to be far more curious than furious, which was damned strange. "You and Harry, together. Under our noses and we didn't even know. Not for the longest time. And he won't talk, either. Not saying a word about it, not any part of it, not to us. So we're asking you—what do you mean by it? Because this can't have been an accident, any of it. You meant it to happen. It takes two, prat."

"Look," Draco steadied himself against the flow of other students brushing past them, crowding in a motley group upon the great stone slabs that led into Hagrid's house. "I've told you, it's none of your concern. It's up to me and to Potter, so keep your pointy noses out of our business."

"And how, exactly, do you intend to enforce that, Malfoy?" Granger purred, but she looked as if she itched to slap him—again. "Death threats again, like with MacMillan? An Unspeakable, maybe?"

"No," Draco nodded once, sharply, and allowed himself the pleasure of a sneering smile. "Oh, no, you're quite correct, Granger—it is a new regime and don't we all know it? And I'd hardly lower myself to a pointless altercation with you two gits when you're clearly just protecting your mate. Even us Slytherins understand that concept, don't you know? No—it'll never come to that, you'll see."

"No?" Weasley's huge hands fisted, but stayed at his sides. He matched Draco's smile, canine for canine and then some. "Will we, now? Then tell us what you think it will all come to, mate, this cock-up you've made of my best mate's life. Did it on purpose, too, from what we can see. Because we're really very, very curious."

"Oh, very," Granger echoed; Draco wanted to slap her—this time. "Carry on, do, Malfoy. Explain."

"It's my kid," Draco replied baldly, and for once he cared not a whit whom might overhear him say it aloud or what tales the sodding tattlers might carry back to Potter. "_My_ child. Tucked up away in your precious Potter's belly, it is. And you can bleeding well assume I'll be claiming it, too. And your precious Potter, while I'm at it. So, please?" He elevated his nose to its very highest, taking advantage of every inch he possessed. Weasley was still the taller but Draco was no slouch in the height department either—and no slouch at intimidation tactics. Blue eyes met grey and he relished the fact that his were the steadier, the cooler. "Fuck the fuck off now. That's all you need know, isn't it? And that's all you're having from me. You're so bloody interested, go ask Potter. See if he'll tell you."

"Ah," Granger piped up, and Draco's gaze snapped round to see her rolling her eyeballs at him. Again, which was growing very old, very fast. "Mum's the word, is it? Not talking? Fine, then. Just know this, Malfoy—we'll be watching you; we'll always be watching you, from now on. Closely. And if you so much as disturb a hair on his head, you'll be paying for it. That's a promise."

"How nice," Draco snapped right back, cool as could be. "Of you two to inform me. Sporting. Cheers for that." He nodded toward the empty entry; all their classmates had already entered long since, and he could hear the old half-giant pontificating away inside, probably taking roll call. The old bumbler did like to always act as if he were a real professor, even now. "Cheers for making us tardy to lessons, too, Gittendors. Well done."

"Oh," Weasley humped a shoulder, carelessly, "it's only Hagrid; he won't mind. 'Leastways, not where we're concerned, Malfoy. You, however?" Ginger eyebrows climbed superciliously as Weasley tilted his head. "You might get docked points, mate, or even have to serve a detention or something, Mr Perfect Prefect. Write out a few hundred lines, maybe. But, hey…" he shrugged again, both shoulders-worth, and seemed infinitely cheered by the prospect. "That's all right in my book. Serves you right, yeah."

"It's the least of what we'd like to do to you, Malfoy," Granger added, but Draco ignored her handily.

A pale blond brow met a violently reddish one and trumped it.

"Hardly," Draco replied serenely, and took a long stride past the two Gryffindors, so he stood on the lintel, half in and half out. "As I'm the one who's been helping your old pal Hagrid out with the mucking and feeding of his bloody Thestral herd all these weekends gone. Voluntarily, too. I offered, you see."

He could barely restrain himself from chuckling at Granger's stifled gasp, Weasley's look of consternation.

"No…really." The chuckle rising up within him like a gas bubble couldn't be denied, quite. This was amusing, actually, if he took care to squelch his understandable outrage from the start. And that he could do, damn it. "There'll be no consequences, thanks, not for this. This is nothing."

"Oi!" Weasley yelped, and stuck out a great big grabby hand to stay him, but too late.

It was a matter of timing, absolutely perfect timing, and knowing just where he fell on Hagrid's ledger of Advanced Creatures students that had him through the door completely and waving a long arm from the very rear of the rest of their class, just on queue.

"Malfoy present! Sir!" he called out promptly, loud and clear above the murmur of the other students whispering to and fro, and when Potter instantly glanced over at him—just that quickly, just for the barest of moments—Draco's smile warmed a fraction for the split-second their gazes met. And clung.

"Malfoy, check," the half-giant rumbled. "Weasley, Ronald."

_Yes!_ Draco exulted inwardly, though outwardly he was the same as always. _Yes, that's it, Harry_. _Do look_.

"Weasley?" Hagrid boomed next, his voice puzzled, peering about him for the gangly Gryffindor. "Ron Weasley? Now, where is that scamp? Any of you lot seen him coming along? No?"

Potter, Draco noticed, was still by Thomas's side, right up front, next to the ancient hound's smelly bedding. But they weren't touching, not in any way. Thomas's foul hand was no longer resting on the small of Potter's back. And Potter was looking a little healthier, yes; a smidge fitter overall than he'd been even a day or so previous. Not quite so wan, not quite so feeble and drawn. Which was all to the good; something to be proud of, Draco decided.

"No Ron? Odd. And Granger—where's my little gel 'Ermione? Any one of you see her?"

Draco closed his eyes in brief satisfaction. He'd caused that, Potter's upswing. It was all on him, thanks.

And relaxed, just a bit, for the first time in fucking ages, and let himself the leisure of looking the whole of Potter over, openly. Kneazle was out of the sack now; he could count on the Hogwarts student-body grapevine to carry the news round that he and the Gryffindork duo had had a bit of meet-up, an ad hoc confer for everyone and anyone to overhear….and that he, Draco, had come away unmolested from it. The winner, ta. Bloody yes.

And was proclaiming his rights, too, as the one responsible for the life incubating in their Hero's belly. As it should be…as it bloody well should be, _yes_.

Because he'd never been a coward, quite. Not really. Only a little fucked in the head, before.


	13. Chapter 13

"How_ are_ you?"

One full month of walking about stuffed to the gullet with a horrendously huge load of guilt, angst and Sturm-und-Drang was fucking excruciatingly tedious, when it came down to it. Wearying, dull and insupportable to a man freshly delivered into the prime of his young life.

Draco was brilliantly bored, to the eyeteeth. Full of it: gills sopping.

And damn, but if Draco wasn't bloody sick of being cast as the one in the wrong. Wasn't _he_ that'd been considering cheating. Wasn't _he_. Pity the Griffindorks didn't acknowledge that, but sod them; they didn't matter. Pity Potter (the git) wouldn't up and admit it, little arse.

"Go away." A deep inhale through flared nostrils and an Avada Kedavra green glow-light glare, dire and jade in the dapple of light that filtred dimly down: that was Potter. All effing chin and that stance of his, the little shit. "Go. _Away_."

"_No_." Draco had to consider this pithy utterance a breakthrough, of sorts. It was the first full sentence Harry had addressed to him directly in ages. "No, I need to know, Potter."

He'd been…_odd_, odd in his pregnancy, Harry had. Highly unusual.

Draco should know; he'd been watching the progress of it obsessively, comparing every miniscule change with every detail his mother recalled and recounted of Marc deLisle's time, and then those again to every scrap of minutiae contained in the Healer's tomes in the Hogwart's Library, Malfoy's own extensive collection and even St Mungo's Pædiatrics Research Section Reference Area (banned to the public generally, but Malfoy Galleons still greased locks, it seemed) held in their learned pages.

It was..fuck! It was all progressing far too fast, for one, at a pace double normal. But this was Potter, and Potter was like no one else, ever.

_Potter_. Bloody Potter.

Draco fretted. Headmistress had proved amenable to allowing his mother to forward Pomfrey the beneficial draught, though. All to the good; Potter required it. No Wizard bore a child without the full and willing support of the other father. Without Draco's compliance, the babe would've aborted naturally in time…and, even now, at the bitter edge of his personal hell, Draco couldn't bear the thought of that.

"No, really. How _are _you?" Draco repeated doggedly. "Tell me how you are. _Harry_."

Harry set his lips into a very thin line and dropped his obstinate chin, refusing to look up. Refusing to even see Draco. He closed his eyes, even; how childish!

"Harry?"

"Harry. Talk to me."

Not that Draco could be overlooked. Wasn't much about to cast one's eyes on, not this time. It was the corridor corner nearby Potions classroom, the same old shortcut they'd used to employ, once upon a time when Harry still could stand him about. And he'd caught Harry here alone sheerly via a diet of lurking and a steady observation of Potter's furtive ways. His ex-lover came this path when he was belated; not often, granted, but often enough for Draco to lay in wait and be pretty hopeful of a 'chance' meeting, in private. 'Chance'! Hah! That it had come down to scurrying about in the shadows irked Draco severely, but yet.

He hastened; there wasn't much time.

"Are you well? How's the pain been? Did the—did it improve, after the Potion Mother sent you? It was supposed to, it was meant to, but—Harry, I can change it up if it's wrong, if it's not working. Just…just talk to me please. The details, I need them. Tell me—_tell me_."

Thin lips, eyes shut tight against him; no openings available. Draco huffed, harassed.

He truly needed to know if it should adjusted, the draught. It was imperative. If there could be tiny changes made to the formula. And it was…it was highly personal. His fluids, his own, mixed in with any number of healing elixirs, and then strained, boiled, steamed and extracted down to a single clear solution. One drop per diem and Harry would feel ever so much better, as would the baby.

"Oh, come now. Don't be an arse."

Without it introduced into his compromised system, Harry might suffer. No, he would absolutely suffer, and Draco's heart sank even to think of such. The references had been quite clear on the physical ramifications of an unassisted male pregnancy. And…ah. His interest in Potter had escalated recently. Now it was not just his fine arse and his fly-by-night mode of attention, but also his whole wellbeing, apparently.

Draco fidgeted, frustrated.

"Harry, at least _say_. One way or the other; is it better or is it not, after my Potion? I can't do anything more to help if you don't say!"

One forced tear or a droplet of perspiration too many, one dram too many or too few of Malfoy semen, and it might be all wrong for Harry's plight; ineffective. He persisted.

"Harry? Let me help you. Don't be such a prick about this. I owe you—I owe _it_."

'It'…ah. The child. He needed to know, yes; it was why he was here, waiting. Pomfrey couldn't tell him, nor would she. He was, after all, still the party to blame for this debacle involving her favourite pupil. Madame could be a grudging old bat when she chose. And Potter was brilliant at playing the vague. He laughed, he smiled, he did all that was mostly normal for the version of 'Harry' he was now…but he gave nothing away. Nothing for free, no. Draco couldn't discern details from just simply watching him from a distance—no.

But…the little one. Theirs, his and Harry's. Surely, there must be some mutual concern there?

"For the baby, Harry. Our child."

It was low; he shouldn't. But, gods, _fuck_, but he needed this information; no, he required it. Obligation demanded it. The bond of fatherhood desired it, and Potter—stupid-head Potter!

"Harry, please." Draco decided to go with a promise he'd no intentions of keeping; any port in a storm, as they said. He blurted out everything, anything, that came to his head.

"I won't bother you again if you don't want, I won't follow after you and nag away, but this is your own physical health that's the main concern here. Your body, Harry; your Magic. I need to know; you have to tell me. How is—how is? The baby's…that baby in you is. _Mine_."

Draco swallowed.

"Mine."

He'd never wrapped his lips around the simple word 'please' quite this often. It wasn't so easy to do.

"So, you owe it _me_. Really. And it—and it's crucial, our child—to _me_, as well, Harry, as much as to you even if you don't believe me on that. I want that baby—our child. It needs to live; you need to live. So, please. Just consider it; I only ask that you consider. Talking to me sometimes, telling me, saying how you're feeling, alright? You can send me Owls if you want, that's alright too, but—but, please. Information's all I'm after, I promise. I'll go straight away if you'll cooperate, I swear—I will. Just, how are you faring—are you well now? The pain; I know there's pain involved, a great whopping lot of it, pain. Is it—it is improved?"

"I had said, once, recently," Harry's voice was low and gruff and he still refused to even glance at Draco, turning his chin obstinately away, his torso, too, "that I hated you. It stands, that. Yes, it's helping. Thank you for it. Now— go away."

"Harry!" Draco exclaimed, shrinking back; if voices could stab, he'd be a corpse already. "Harry, if you cou—fuck, I only meant to—oh, Harry, don't be like that. Be ration—"

"No!"

Potter wheeled about, eyes flaming, and with all his defenses up. A ghost from the past, all too recent. A memory.

…And Draco was treated to all the signals of the full-out Potter temper, the likes of which he'd not witnessed in ages, boiling out in waves of despising heat, searing him.

Full turn, a rise up on tiptoes and those green eyes flashing vitriol. A bulge at the flat belly, too—that was new, wasn't it?—and then a hand there, fingers wide and warm in an instant. Protecting it.

That _was_ new and it meant something, it did. The harsh glare of Harry's scowl perversely left Draco feeling less frozen, abruptly.

"Go away, go away, _go away_! God damn you, Malfoy, why can you _not_ just go away? Sod off!"

"N—!"

"Or I will!"

And Harry turned upon his heel and fled Draco's presence, as if all the demons from the Ninth Circle followed him, set to eat up his very entrails.

"Bloody! Why…why? Is it…so…?"

Draco sank down to his haunches upon the chilled flags beneath his boot soles and stared after Potter. Wide-eyed and dry-eyed, loose-limbed in shock, and wondered what had befallen his grand plan that this was his result, after.

…But this wasn't over. No, not by a long shot.


	14. Chapter 14

Pregnancy was not particularly kind to Harry Potter.

It was the thought of it, perhaps, that was worst: of what would happen in the end, when he was handed a newborn in hospital. _He_, of all people, all miserable people, shouldn't be simply given a baby, an infant innocent of the world—no, not he.

He was, when it came down it, to the last bitter word, naught more than a serial murderer. The children of the world needed protection from the likes of him; no one would want a murderer for a parent.

Nor a liar, either. A pathological, possessive liar. And Malfoy _had_ lied. Lied about everything, even _saying_ nothing of consequence, ever—he'd bloody well lied just by breathing, by being. Deceptive git—Slytherin.

Yes, of course, because the 'nothing' must've meant 'something' to him; all along it must've, and yet he'd never said. Never said, only netted Harry into an impossibility and then skulked off like the great bloody big twat he was, sulking, barely daring to show his stupid whey face in public.

Sending along stupid tonics via his Mum, the fucking coward, when Harry _really _wanted—Harry wanted!

…What Harry now wanted wasn't something he knew.

Well, then.


	15. Chapter 15

"Harry, dear, I am afraid you must." Madame Pomfrey _and_ Headmistress had ganged up on him, and before breakfast, too. "It's clear as day. The Healers at St Mungo's are expecting—"

At least, it felt that way.

"The hell it is! The hell I will!"

Madame flapped her hands at him, frowning. Harry scowled.

"Oh, come. Be rational, do. You are changing, Harry, magically and physically. To accommodate the baby and still at a pace I confess I do not understand," Madame added, her chins wobbly with frustration. "Unless the scan returned the delivery date both times incorrectly; in which case, but yet, I don't believe, can't believe—but, well!" She flung her wand tip up, as if to Vanish all her unanswered medical questions. "In any event, you really must—"

"I must _nothing_, damn it, if I don't want! Not going! Not budging, you hear? Not!"

"Now, _Harry_—"

"I don't want to go to the damned hospital, alright? I've had quite enough of hospitals, cheers," Harry snarled. "Sick to death of them. Not—bloody—going."

"That's ridiculous; Poppy here simply doesn't have the facilities to ensure a safe delivery. It's inevitable you'll be a patient at Mungo's eventually, and better now than later, when there's bound to be trouble. But no matter, Harry," Headmistress took up the verbal snitch and zoomed off with it, expression severe. "Mrs Malfoy has been and we have discussed all of this, the next steps, and what is best for you now. Naturally, the crucial item is your heal—"

"Best for _me_!" Harry snorted, folding his arms pugnaciously over the slight mound of his belly. "Hah!" His lenses glinted as he returned Headmistress's irritated glare gleam for steely gleam. "I _don't_ think. Pity you didn't invite _me_ to that meeting. _I'd _like to have been included in."

"Oh?" A grey eyebrow climbed at him, querying.

"Oh, _I've_ a few things to say, Headmistress. Narcissa Malfoy happens to owe me a debt and I, her. I'm positive we could've worked something out, between us," Harry sneered sourly. "Something to our mutual advantage—I could always use the extra Galleons, yeah? Because I don't happen to like this, this being held hostage for an heir. I'd rather just give the kid right over to them—it's not as if _I_ ever wanted it or asked for it, either! Let the blasted Malfoys have it then, if they want it so."

"Harry," Headmistress thinned her lips. "That is _not_ what we spoke of at all. The subject of a Malfoy heir never arose. We spoke of your continued good health, and of course the baby's. And of Draco Malfoy's future intentions and requirements, as he's the other father, of course. That is all."

"…Requirements?" Harry grimaced horribly at both elder Witches in turn, appalled. "_He_ has requirements now? What of _me_? What of mine? _I'm_ the one bloody well stu—"

"Harry, no one is conniving to take your child from you," Headmistress stated plainly, her tartan hat quivering with suppressed indignation. "Believe me, if they did, _I_ would have something to say about it. Let there be no doubt of _that_, young man!"

"What if I want them to, alright?" Harry jerked his chin well up, eyes glittering poison. "What if I don't want it—this, this thing stuck in me—and what if I wanted to be rid of it as soon as I possibly, _possibly_ could? Did you think of that, Minerva? Did you and Mrs Malfoy discuss that idea?"

"Potter! A civil tongue in your head will not come ami—!"

There was a small flurry of starch and Pomfrey making sudden shushing noises. "Shh, Minerva! Can't you see he's—oh, deary me!"

"A civil tongue?" Harry gagged, choking on the idea. "Pardon? What about you? Talking about me behind my back?"

"Oh, dear. Harry, my dearest boy, you mustn't upset yourself so." Madame was quick to approach and to lay a soothing hand upon his taut shoulders, rubbing them gently. Harry shrugged at her, fretful and rolling his eyes. "No, no, dear. Be calm now. What's done is done and we all must simply cope."

"Cope!"

"Yes, indeed," Pomfrey blinked at him kindly. "I confess I was quite upset by this too, dear, when first we all saw how it was with you, but it's been a month or more now and we must really learn to move on. And, Harry dear—it's perhaps for the best if you now and again practise the controlled breathing exercise I taught you, at least when you find yourself feeling out of kilter. It will help, I assure you. And the Quiescens Charm, naturally. Very bracing, that one."

"Pfft! Breathing! Charms! Nothing like those will ever help what's happened to _me_," Harry shot back bitterly. "I'm sunk, I'm afraid. Beyond help, done for."

"Hardly," Headmistress deigned to smile frostily at him from behind the sanctity of her great wooden desk. She adjusted her hat brim carefully and leant forward, a curiously knowing gleam in her eye. "Perhaps you've not thought of this aspect yet, Harry; perhaps you aren't aware, but Wizarding children are very special indeed. By which I mean to say they are of the greatest Magical significance to their parents. Indeed, there is still far too much you don't know about Wizarding his—"

"Oh, are they? Lovely; lucky for them," Harry growled loudly, unappeased. "Rather a lot more than the other kind, I bet."

"Harry, please!" Madame looked quite affronted; the rub became a tiny swat to draw his attention. "If you would but sit still and listen to what we have to say instead of fidgeting about and sulking! It is not so simple, what has happened to you and your young man—"

"Young man!? He's _not_! This is Malfoy—**Malfoy**!"

"And, I am certain you have no real understanding , either, of the amazing circumstances you've found yourself in with this latest change in your fortunes, Harry," Headmistress carried on serenely, a weather eye cocked on her student's troubled expression and the scuffed rubber tip of the trainer he was tapping impatiently. "And no more than _he_ does, your Malfoy. Indeed, why would you? You're both barely above eighteen, Harry—far too young, really, to be called parents at this age."

Harry grunted. "He's older than I am, the sneaky git. He'd a bloody real Wizard and should know all this history you speak of—should've teethed on it, damn it! And_ I_ am eighteen years, plus half again another, Poppy," Harry retorted grimly, still tapping a toe madly, "Minerva! By the time this horrible child is ripped out of my gut I'll be nigh on nineteen. Nineteen years old! Fully and completely a _real_ adult, thank you—and have been for ages now, which you well know, both of you, and I would bloody well appreciate it if you all, all of you, could simply just treat me tha—"

"Oh, dear, dear. Poor Harry," Headmistress sighed wearily, sitting back and blinking at him from behind the silvery rims of the specs she'd take to donning lately at all times, claiming concessions to aged eyes. "You're carrying quite a large chip on your shoulder over this, aren't you? Pity, that. I had hoped we could inspire you to come to terms with the situation and consider the practical aspects now. As does Mrs Malfoy. She has been most…helpful, shall we say? Of course, she is very concerned for your sake, too."

"**PITY**?" Harry's lower jaw came nearly unhinged, he was that much appalled at his old professor's cavalier attitude. He nearly jumped up out of his seat at it, too, but his stomach gave him a nasty rumble. He clenched his teeth instead and all but spat, "Helpful?! Excuse me? **_Excuse me_**? Since when is it_ my_ fault this whole cock-up happened? This is all that berk Malfoy's doing, Minerva—_all of it_. He set me up, the scum! He did!"

"Potter," Headmistress regarded him most carefully and with a species of pity, perhaps, lurking behind the brightness of her lenses. "Harry, I'm afraid I _must_ inform you—"

"Well, that's just the thing, Harry," Madame cried out and shook her starched cap at him, her coiled grey braids trembling, having retreated a safe step or two away as Harry's unruly hair began to rise before the usual invisible wind and some quite plainly visible blue-green sparks popped up all about his perimeter. "We all did believe—but, well. We thought wrong, it seems. _He_ didn't. Your Malfoy, I mean. He couldn't have possibly. My dear, you were already carrying."

"What? Ngh! **Noooo**!"

Harry gasped, gulped, fighting angry nausea by blinking hard and fast at his familiar old school nurse and his old familiar Transfiguration professor—and, too, at the unctiously smiling portrait of his bloody old more-than-familiar ex-Headmaster, whose portrait was situated right behind Minerva and the upper left against the wall, exactly placed to enable peering down at Harry quite intently—and proceeded to fall straight over from where he sat jammed up in a nasty huddle, ramrod-spined and accused of 'sulking'—how dare they say that of him! And fell more, slumping sideways and down and well out of the uncomfortable chair Headmistress had sternly ushered him to at arrival.

"..._No_. Oh, _please _no…"

"Poppy! _Ho_! Incoming!"

It was a red-black rush in Harry's head, and the incomprehensible noise of a million bees humming, and his hands wrapping tight and convulsively about his waist as he keeled blankly into space, eyes fluttering shut for a time.

"_Poppy_! Oh, for Merlin's sake, Poppy, don't just stand there and stare at him—Levitas! Levitas, Potter! Up, up, _up we go_, Harry! At once!"

Those were the last words he took in for quite some time, his Headmistress's voice ringing out tart as lemon pie, echoing off the impassive walls of her office.

_Stone—hard stuff—painful._ Oh yes…wasn't he about to slam into some? _Face first, naturally—naturally._

_Floating? Oh, right._ Right, yes…yes, he was, actually. _Levitas. Good spell, that._

Harry risked a tiny peep, but just barely cracking a lid. There was the swept-clean grey floor of his Headmaster's sanctum, same as it ever was, dancing but a foot away from his wrinkled-up nose, his heaving belly.

The voices? Those voices were ones Harry recognized. They were very far away and distant all the same, the swelling murmur of concerned females chattering, and well beyond the roar of internal tide rising up in his ears; well beyond even the wavering view of the greyed-out flags now but an inch below his bobbing head.

His poor spinning head.

_Specs are sliding off_! Harry realized vaguely, in a panicky sort of way; he should likely push them up his nose again before they fell right off his face and a lens cracked. _They'll be broken again—I can't afford—oh, no I can—Wait!_

_Wait_. Where _was _Hermione when he needed her, anyway? She'd make sense of all this bollocks, right?

_What the hell_? He'd already _been_? How could that possibly be? Nothing added up—nothing!

But she wasn't there. The soft darkness numbing him was really quite peaceful instead, better than anything he'd been feeling had been lately, at least: a rather floaty-feeling, and ever so nice, and Harry couldn't bring himself to care overmuch that he'd tumbled right out of his seat in the middle of a heated conversation with the head of his school. Much.

No. It was all _too much_, this latest bit of soul-shattering news. Had he, _really_? Couldn't be!

And…how had he not known of it—_not_ realized something so important about himself, his own body? Not _noticed_?

No, no. Calm—that was it. Breathe in, breathe out—_that _was it, the thing to do now. Just as Madame said.

"Quiescens, Quiescens," he mouthed soundlessly, and it came, as promised: more of the _floaty-brilliant_, more of the _calm_, just as he so desperately needed it to come. "…Quiescens, _oh please_."

"Potter? Potter, can you hear me?"

"Harry—dear—oh, dear, Minerva! I do think St Mungo's now rather than—"

No, no. Not Mungo's again. He'd have to cope with it all later—that arse Malfoy, his mum, the bloody 'practical aspects', sod them. Sort out what _he_ felt, what _he_ wanted—what the flying fuck Malfoy had even been _thinking_ all this time, if that was even a possibility.

Right at the moment, though, Harry Potter and his tiny 'special' guest were just a bit knackered, just a bit worn to the bloody nub. And sleep beckoned.

Sleep…not something he'd had much of, lately.

With a resigned sigh, he gave in to what his body wanted. And uttered a very healthy snore.


	16. Chapter 16

"What the fuck d'you mean, he's in hospital?" Draco demanded of Granger. "When did that happen?"

"Just thought you might be wondering where Harry was, Malfoy, that's all," she replied cheekily. "Since you seem to be stalking him again. I saw you looking over to ours at breakfast, you know. Obvious, aren't you?"

"Fuck your silly talk of stalking, wench; I am _not_ stalking—bollocks to that, _why_ the Hades is Potter suddenly in hospital? What's wrong with him _now_?"

"Bit of fainting spell, from what I hear," Weasley was again stationed on Draco's other side, the gangly wastrel. His expression was bland but his pointed gaze wasn't. "In McGonagall's office first thing this morning. Happened," he snapped finger and thumb in a careless sort of manner that belied the burn in the blue eyes, "just like that."

"**_What_**? Why—for pity's sake, _why_, you gits? Why'd he faint? What did they do to him? You can't just come along and accost me and then give me only that much!"

"Oh, yes, Malfoy?" Granger smiled tightly at him. "Maybe we don't know more and we've come to you to find out. Have you thought of that?"

"What? What's all this?"

They all halted at Draco's pealing shout-out, the other upper-level students in Advanced Magical Creatures ducking and streaming about their little huddle, down the scrabble of the hillside, furtively passing stares and glances back their way and whispering madly, but not one of their curious classmates dared stay and interfere.

"I don't know the first thing about it, Granger, and I'd be damned obliged to find out!"

"…Hmm," Weasley nodded in his general direction and shared a speaking glance with the Witch. "Thought that might be it. No use, Hermione; let's be off, shall we?"

"Wait!" Draco roared, and side-stepped to block them with ease of a man to the broom born. "Oh, no, you don't! Talk, wankers—tell me about Potter!"

No, no one stopped, not even that fool MacMillan, who had the temerity to offer up to Draco a lingering and malevolent glare as he went.

Draco snarled wordlessly at them all, infuriated beyond measure when his order was met with only a weighty silence and shifty eyes. "Well? Talk, damn you!"

"Huh," Weasley waved an arm, resettling his bag strap. "Well. Can't tell you what we don't rightly know, can we, Malfoy?"

"Thought _you _might know more about it than we do, actually," Granger sniffed, rocking back on her heels and blinking up at him smarmily. "Since you're the giant twat that did this to him. Aren't they supposed to be informing you, Malfoy, Headmistress and Pomfrey? I thought that was how you old-fashioned Wizards went about these things, all 'formal this' and 'allow me to notify you of that' nonsense—am I wrong?"

"Informing **me**?" Draco howled, clenching a fist and gritting his teeth. "They tell me nothing,nothing! Not one of these bloody old biddies running this blasted Castle says a fucking thing that's worth listening to, not to _me_. And my own Mum, bloody fuck—she's as bad as they are! Worse! All _I_ know is Potter's supposed to be mostly left to himself to recover—he's all right, and the Potion I brewed, he's to take—"

"Oh, right, right!" Weasley laughed—right in Draco's face, the rude bastard.

"What?" Draco demanded, sensing mockery. "What's crawled up your mangy arse now, Weasel? _Do_ tell."

"Huh! Left to himself, is it? And of course you can't ever even begin manage that one simple thing, can you, Malfoy?" Weasel sneered right back at Draco, shoving his ugly mug right up against Draco's startled and darkly scowling one. "Really, when have you _not_ been trotting right on the heels of our Harry all these years? I can't say as I've seen that happen. No—can't say I have, hmm. You always just seem to be just right there, git—kicking round like a bad knut. Can't be rid of you."

"Too true," Granger piped up brightly, all tooth and glinting eys. "Pulling pigtails, Malfoy." She giggled, but it was humourless in the extreme. "Can we all say De-Men-Tor, Malfoy? Of course we can! Or, how about we say slugs and be done wi—"

"Oh, sod off!" Draco snapped and stamped a heel on the tumble of scree and blunted pebbles. "Fuck you and all your 'holier-than-thou' Gryffin-git ways! It's none of your blasted business, is it? Never has been, and it never will—and look here, **_look here_**!"

He reached out a hand and took firm hold of Weasels' robes collar, twisting it viciously, and quite uncaring if Granger hexed him or slapped him or whatever the hell for doing it; he'd had it quite up to the eyeteeth already, _ta_.

"Enough of that hoary ancient shit. What's gone on with Potter now? _I need to know_."

"**Oi**!" Weasley yelped when taken up, and then there was that little brainy bint dancing around them both, up on tippytoes, no doubt casting about for an opening and squeaking indignantly all the while. Draco ignored their antics, magisterially, and thundered out his question, right in the ginger prat's face—his burning question, because Potter was in no way allowed to actually be in hospital! Not without _his_ knowing!

"What_ is_ this about St Mungo's? He was well enough yesterday night at Astronomy, last I saw of him. _Why_ is Potter there instead of here, where he's meant to be? Tell me what you _do_ know, at least, you fucking bloody little tossers, or I won't hesitate to curse you both _to stick_, this time."


	17. Chapter 17

"…Draco?"

"Mm?" Slytherin Common was quiet, for once. Draco had them all pretty well trained up now, the younger set. And Theo and Blaise had already retired, claiming exhaustion after the mucking and fluffing service for Thestrals Draco had pressed them into earlier.

Only Draco lingered, pacing in slow circles, and Parkinson, seated before the fire and ostensibly swotting up on some mouldy old text or the other.

Saturday night and still—he had no Potter. It was enough to have a Malfoy hexing stray Puffs, but he couldn't, of course.

"What, Pansy?"

Potter had apparently emerged unscathed from hospital but had immediately holed up in his hideout. Draco hadn't caught hide nor hair of him, either, despite being on the lookout.

"I was just…I was just thinking. Da read to me when I was small, d'you know?"

Draco sighed; Parkinson's father was a topic he knew far more about than ever he'd wanted. But the awful old git was his best girlfriend's obsession, being currently incarcerated, and it was his duty as Pansy's mate to listen. And listen and listen and listen, ad nauseum. "Yeah?"

"Yes." His friend stared intently into the flames on the centre hearth, which lit up Commons but dimly. The light danced across her features—not pretty, necessarily, but with age and experience not all that bad, either. She dimpled for an instant, smiling at nothing, and Draco was struck by the stray notion that, to someone—some poor sod out there, as yet undiscovered—Pansy might possibly come across as very fit indeed. He shuddered slightly; not to _him_, naturally. Never to him. "He did. I remember it now."

Really, Potter was more along the lines of what Draco desired in a sexual partner.

"Tales at bedtime."

'Course, the only reason Draco knew for certain Potter was returned to Hogwarts and in fairly decent fettle was because Pomfrey and McGonagall had told him so. Right smack in the midst of informing him he was falling down on his job as 'other father'.

"Oh?" Draco checked his watch surreptitiously. In a few moments more he'd have to depart for rounds and then spend a likely useless and indeterminate amount of time haunting the tower room of Potter's. "Really."

"Um," Pansy swiveled her chin to stare at him. "But, Muggle tales, Draco—he read me Muggle tales. I think it's odd, don't you? Now that I'm thinking of it…"

Draco had instantly countered their accusations by demanding how he was take good care of Potter and his child when Potter absolutely refused to even speak to him?

"I mean…_Muggle_, Draco. Don't _you _think that's strange? Knowing Da?"

"Huh!" Draco blinked, startled, and his jaw dropped slightly before he remembered to close it up tight, his habitual composure snapping back in place. The senior Parkinson had never had any great love for Muggles; gods, yes, it was strange. Tedious, but strange. "What sort?"

Pomfrey had clucked disapprovingly and offered, reluctantly, to intercede on his behalf, a shocking idea if Draco had ever heard one. He was Malfoy—Malfoys took care of their own!

"Princess stories, mostly," Pansy replied softly, her gaze intent upon the dark circles Draco knew were showing despite every artifice he had at hand. "He always did tell me I was his 'little princess'. I suppose he wanted me to hear about them from somewhere. Not a lot of those abounding in Wizardly children's literature, are there?"

"Still," Draco shrugged, mildly bewildered by his friend's journey down Memory Lane but abstracted, too. Time was growing short and having Pansy descend into a Mood was the last thing he required this evening. Being forced to up stakes and to escort Pansy to Pomfrey would be even worse, of course; better to humour the chit. "Little barmy."

"Yes," Pansy nodded firmly. "But I liked it, very much. I had a favourite, you know? A favourite story, out of them all. I must've asked for Da to read it a thousand times or more."

"…Did you?" Draco nodded and reflected for a moment on how unbearably unselfish he was being, waiting about like veritable noddy for his friend to conclude whatever latest and wandering tale she had to relate of her unfortunate _pater_. And Parkinson Senior was a load of bollocks; always had been. A bad egg in a crateful. Now, he, himself?—_he_ never spoke of his, not here at Hogwarts, certainly, and not before his fellow Slytherins. No point to it, not now. Detrimental, even. "Which was that, darling? Not that I'd know it," he added, because of course_ he_ wouldn't.

…Potter might know of these arsed-ended tales the Muggles had to boggle their whelps with. And he might wish in turn to pass them on to his own—and Draco's.

Appalling idea! Draco winced. But, in the new Age, Draco supposed he'd have to allow it. Turn _Potter_ up sweet and keep his tongue between his teeth over it. There were certainly worse things than a few Muggle stories.

"Pansy, you were saying?" he prompted her gently, when she made no move to carry on and relay all the details of what was like to be some pile of shite about wrong-headed women in long skirts and wimples, stuck away in a tower somewhere and pining away for some poor sod to kiss them.

Bah!

But…his poor old girl Pansy was as bloody fragile as Potter was now, and he loved her, least as far as he could be said for feel affection for any other than his own Mum. Not so much his Father, no, whom he'd—stupidly, it turned out—used to idolize, but his lovely strong-as -honed Witchblade Mum was a different matter altogether. She was all right, and for her sake…? Well, He could afford to stay his plans for another little set of moments, spent on Pansy, to keep _her _sweet. It wasn't as though Potter' s stronghold was likely to be any more inviting or accessible than it had been these last weeks.

If anything, Potter was probably barricaded even tighter behind that great ancient iron-bound door.

Draco gritted his back teeth at the thought of it. Not much use having a lot of old Witches up his arse when Potter himself was blasted unreasonable, was there?

But Pansy still didn't say.

"Draco? Draco!"

"Hmm?"

No, she cast her Potions text aside in a sudden flurry, turning fully about on the divan and drawing her rounded kneecaps under the hem of her short skirts. And she eyed him brightly, and all the musing reverie lingering about her was vanished in a flash. Though the firelight lent intriguing shadows to her face, making it appear very elfin.

And very curious, too. Decidedly.

"Draco, what's this I hear about you and Potter? Are you two keeping company? Knocking knees, is it?"

Draco's jaw clamped tighter than ever; it literally pained him. "Wha-_what_?" he spat out, and only barely kept himself from jumping where he turned about.

"And he's with child—I've heard that, too, going the rounds, and from reliable sources," she added cheerfully, dark eyes glittering. "_Your_ child, Draco. Is it—is it true, then?"

"Excuse—?" Draco swallowed a disconcerted huff. "What _is _this nonsense?"

Just because Draco had declared himself before those Gryffindicks didn't mean he wanted the news to be common fodder, either. He put his best oppressive face on it and stared Pansy straight in the eyes, daring her to pursue it.

"Oh, no, don't pull faces, Draco. Come, now, you can tell _me_, ducks." She smiled gamely across the length of the room at him, the wretchedly sneaky little bint, as if possibly unaware she'd just set him up for the kill, luring him along with tales of parental strangeness and then sinking the blade in Draco's back when he was least expecting it. Because he didn't ever talk about Potter—he'd not said a single word, not to anyone. Well, sure, he'd 'said' a great deal to that asinine Ernie bloke, but he was a special case and deserved all the abuse Draco had heaped upon him, but aside from that Potter-thieving little twat? No one, not a soul. And why would he? They shagged, that was all, he and Potter, and there was no point in joshing over it with any of his old mates, was there?

"Sod off," Draco snapped, instantly in the defensive. "Not your business."

No. And there was great advantage to be gained, having Potter trust him, at least a little. No one could claim he didn't know how to keep his mouth from flapping and not boast. Less said about it the better, right?

"But, Draco…" Pansy leant forward, extending a slim hand. The manicure Greengrass had given her earlier to chuff her up a bit shone blood-red in the hearth light's flicker. "It _is_, rather." Such a persuasive smile she had when she wanted to, little cunt. "Of course it is. You're my mate, always. You've stood by me, all this time, and that's not been the easiest thing ever, has it? I want to know what's on with you, what you're about. Why the long face and the perpetual bad mood, Draco. I want to help, if I can."

"Help," Draco snorted darkly, before he could stop himself. He slammed his arse down on the other end of the sofa in a fury. "Fuck, like anyone could!"

"Draco—"

Not a fucking word had he said and where had that landed him? Stuck, was what, with no one to hear his side of the story!

And he'd a heap built up inside of him, a whole vat full of vitriol bubbling away, over this mess between him and Potter.

"It's a bit beyond _help_, Pansy," he scowled, affixing his gaze firmly upon the firedogs—coiled up serpents, they were, rather naturally—and avoiding hers completely. It wasn't as though the sight of fire itself didn't give him a spot of the willies, sometimes, but there was no getting away from it, was there? And fire stupidly reminded him of Potter, somehow. Hot—and just warm, too. Fast and free and pretty wild, when it wanted to be. So…not all bad. Not all bad. "Huh! But, yeah. Thanks for the thought."

"Draco." Pansy was completely on task, all at once. She'd that ferrety look, the one she wore when scheming. "Draco, if there's one thing I've learnt, it's that _nothing_ is beyond all help. Not even Da. Now—tell me. Talk, my little man. I want to hear it, from the beginning."

"No!" Draco was scandalized. "Positively not! Look, drop it, will you? Leave off. None of your business, as I just told you."

"No, love, I shan't," Pansy grinned. "By all accounts you've mucked it up completely. And you're miserable—don't dare say you're not. You need some womanly advice, Draco, and I'm in the mood to give it. So, talk to me, right here, right now, or you'll find yourself immobilized and Incarcerized and then that skint Prickwad will hand you detention for skiving off duties. D'you want that? Because I don't think you do, really. Blaise says you're always off somewhere mysterious after you're done rounds, and I bet my entire stash of Bott's it's to chase after Potter. Now—**talk**. Or there'll be consequences."


	18. Chapter 18

Harry's Room, up Fluffy's old tower, was a subject to a fit of midnight revamping, not quite as soon as he'd set foot back in Hogwarts, released from his bloody new horde of 'minders', but as damned sure soon as he could slip the watchful eyes of his best mates after. Explosive restoration, it was, with intent to redecorate anew, and preemptive destruction bunged bang to the top of Harry's priority list.

Better _out_ than in; better_ off_ than _with_, was it? Yes!

He gritted his teeth and had at it, twirling his wand like a maddened dervish and barely bothering to cast a simple incantation to mask the unconscionable noise.

_There_ went the violet sofa—the Malfoy-enhanced fancy-arse linens—even his sodding teapots, one by one. _There_ went the elderly desk he'd rescued from an old Commons Room, blown to a cloud of kindling.

The lamps, _each_ in a burst of instantly doused flame.

_There_ went the carpet, straight out from under his feet, into a nebulous billow of cerulean sparks and extinguished fringe, and then the posters –those colourful mementos of the Weird Sisters he'd scrounged up second-hand on Diagon this last summer and framed with a simple charm Hermione had taught him. _There_ went the Muggle gramophone—a puff of smoke—_and_ the vinyl recordings he'd spent a few begrudged Galleons on.

Every extraneous piece of detritus collected, every magpie strand, gone.

Bared stone, bared wood—naught but old bones, this Tower room. Beneath all the dressing, below all the small touches Harry had gathered to make this space his own, there was nothing remaining but raw foundation, laid bare-arse naked.

It made no matter. Harry knew for certain now there was no real space to call his own; that was the sick-making, utterly gutting reality of it. Inside and out, he wasn't inviolate—not at all, never had been, and likely never again.

Curse Malfoy—no, curse _himself_, for thinking he could have a little fun and then get away with it, scot-free. No consequences, hah! No…there were always consequences, weren't there? And now he was under their eyes again, the purview of strangers, all the stupid, interfering people, who believed simply because he was Harry Potter, he was theirs to mess about with and generally make miserable.

_Fuck_!

Harry's Room. Contained a Harry, who didn't sob nor whimper nor make a single pointless sound as the risen dust settled thickly on the cold hard granite that freaky old carpet he'd scrounged had hid so very nicely.

Dust, then. Falling. All that was left. Which Harry promptly and tidily Vanished with yet another charm, snapped out and furious—echoing.

His teeth clicked; he could hear them doing it, and had to restrain himself from outright grinding them. Oh, no—mustn't be upset, mustn't be ill-tempered—mustn't be anything be grateful, right?

Bearer of life was he? Bit of a walking wonder, dear boy?

Fuck that!

Grateful? For what, now? For a sneaky bit of wild old magic snuck up on him when he wasn't expecting? For a bloody magical school which had protected him and his once and then—and then! Had dared to lay upon him what he certainly _never_ Required—a bloody baby? The makings of a family? A child of his own to rear and raise up and manage not muck up along the way,? All this, when he could barely navigate the last dwindling days of his own childhood?

Where the _fuck _was the good in that?

And why the hell Malfoy—why Malfoy? Why not someone nice, someone trustworthy instead? A Gryffindor, for goodness sake? God, why not Ernie?

But Malfoy…sleek, perfect Malfoy, who'd righted himself mid-air after the War was through and landed upon his expensive shoes like a cat—no, a Kneazle. A _Kneazle_, that was it. Malfoy's probably couldn't abide common old cats, could they?

"Blast it! Come on, now—bring it! I bloody well need it, don't I?"

Harry's Room: it suddenly featured a bentwood bassinet, cadged magically from the far-off fastness of his Aunt's attic. She'd never know it, and Harry didn't well fucking care if she did. It had been his, once, he was fairly certain, maybe kept stowed as a small indulgence to herself Petunia had hidden from everyone, likely even herself, yes, seventeen—no, eighteen years ago. Eighteen years…

"You've gone and made sure of that, haven't you?"

It had been his Mum's once, before he'd slept in it as a baby, and it was still maybe mostly Muggle, but…

Not quite. Whispers of decades-old Charms laid on by his father and his long-passed away Potter grandmother—what was her name again? He couldn't recall—still ran through the aged canes, flickering almost imperceptibly about the removable basket-cradle, dancing through the tiny bed linens that were still as lavender-fresh as they'd been, when last an infant Potter had occupied it.

"It's the real thing, isn't it? Not some facsimile you've pulled out of your arse? Because I won't have it here if it's not the real one."

There was at least no blood to mar it, the curlicues of cane, the tiny blue-toned duvet. His mum had died in an instant, hadn't she? Nothing messy about a good old Unspeakable, was there? Just over and done and then…nothing at all.

Harry stomped closer to take a good long gander. There! A sear line, right there, where the scallop of edging cane had been burnt up—and then gone cold, cold as his old nursery had been, after Mum…and Dad…

"Huh. Well, good thing," he allowed grudgingly, never expecting—nor receiving—a reply. "I'd've left here if you hadn't, you know?"

Oh, yes, this _was_ his, no denying it; this pretty little artifact from a life long gone. No doubt. As his child was in fact his, and that bloody git's as well, and the voices of sense-and-reason all insisted on singing out to his ears it was time to swallow down the worst of the always-present resentment and take some heart in the fact he was probably the singularly weirdest young man walking about on the whole entire planet.

"Bloody…Merlin," Harry muttered darkly as he paced about the lonely addition to the cold, newly barren space. "What a fucking joke."

He'd been sorely in need of it, his heart. Waking up in hospital and being stared at by legions of Healers, as if he was a very fascinating new malady—or maybe a mutated Creature. Shock and awe and a tiny bit of fear—that's what he'd seen in their gazes. Bloody draining they were, too, like masquerading vampires, all asking him questions, all poking about and waving wands at him.

Forcing down his throat various foul-tasting potions and quizzing him on Malfoy's whereabouts when he was actively attempting to swallow—he'd been a bit rude over that, but Harry really figured they deserved it, the lot of them.

As if Malfoy would magically appear and fly to his side—as if!

_His_ courage was what he'd needed then, so fucking vaunted by people who didn't know, couldn't know, and never really looked to see where it came from, did they? Of course not—why would they? He'd need it, every dram of it—because Malfoy was still a fucking sly bastard of a twat, a manipulative little shit who simply reached out and took what he wanted, probably thinking only of himself as usual—always just _him_—and Harry was allowing him no part of _his_ child.

"Urrgh!"

_No part_.

Furious, he kicked out an angry foot and sent his old bassinette skittering away across the flags with a screech.

It tottered, teetered and nearly toppled right over before he could so much as leap at it to right it—and then abruptly settled onto all four legs, with barely a bump.

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, narrow of eye and very squinty. "Keep your nose out, damn it! I had that!"

Sodding old Castle, lest he forget, yeah? Not just Malfoy, was it? No, it was everything Harry had left to call his own, and really the only place he'd _ever _felt at home, bar none, and it had to go and conspire against him, apparently in the bloody name of _Requirement_. Had thought—and was it really a sentient old pile, his Hogwarts?—it had 'thought' to give its defender 'love'—wave a fucking flag in the face of so much loss.

Merlin's bunghole—_so stupid_! Like Harry wanted it, now? What would _he_ do with such a thing, anyway? There was no room available inside him, not after everything else. Fuck and he didn't _want_ there to be.

Hadn't—that had been the beauty of the thing with Malfoy. No, he'd only been after a little fun. _They'd _been after a little fun, really—to be precise about it.

Why was that so freaking difficult for everyone else to understand? Why in the Name of all Hells did they expect him to care—now? Sod love—sod the ties that kept him prisoner. Sod all of it.

…And that was wrong again: the actual word was wrong. There was nothing about this thing stuck in his body to inspire 'love'. Care, yes. Responsibility, yes. Those, yes, alright—he wasn't a monster, but not love.

Love was saved for better things, better people. And he'd not so much to spare, anymore. He loved Hermione, alright? The Weasleys, too. His other friends, a bit. And he'd loved a lot of people, once, a great many people—and creatures, and places, and all that—but they'd all gone and died on his watch despite him.

No, Harry Potter was done with love. Officially off it, altogether. Wasn't worth it. Couldn't stick it—didn't know how to do it, even, not the proper way. And _not_ bloody Malfoy—_he_ was meant for shagging. Bodies, finding pleasure, that's all. And certainly there was no love to spare for a kid who'd been foisted on Harry practically twice over now: once by sheer raw happenstance of misguided Requirement and once by that sly pale bastard's express design, and he—Harry—was having no part of it.

None.

"Hell, _no_."

The hell with the fatherly 'requirements' Pomfrey nattered on about, the fuck with the 'arrangements' Headmistress had gone ahead and set up with Narcissa Malfoy: rooms at the Manor to call his own, the best of the world's Healers, a special diet! Bosh and tosh and crap! Oh, no—he wasn't their pawn, and he wasn't their responsibility, either. He'd a bargaining chip now—this baby-thing, this infant intruder, this lump inside him, just now wriggling fitfully—and he was damned well planning on leveraging it to the utmost.

"Bastards, all of them. Heinous lot!"

Better _out _than_ in_—better the fuck _out_! There was no time for crying over spilt milk, no need to regret.

_Fuck_, but there was nothing _to_ regret. He could argue fate all he liked but it was too late for that; Headmistress had one thing right down pat, at least. He'd had a good time, yes. Now it was over. Now it was another time, entirely.

And somehow there was plenty of time-within-time to painstakingly obliterate every reminder of Draco Malfoy from Harry's own personal room of refuge and thus forcibly take back every inch of _his_ space for his very own.

Every bloody square _inch_.

Except the bassinet, courtesy Hogwarts. But that had been his, as well, once—long, long ago.

…._And_ their child-to-come…oh, yes—_that_.

"Oh, bloody…"

Harry sighed deeply, drearily, yanking at his hair and ruffling it every which way as he sank down upon the chill floor. He scrabbled the back of his hand across his tired face. Yes—it was a little puffy, even though he'd never shed a tear, not one, over the whole disaster.

"Bother and fuck, why'd you have to pick on _me _again, anyway?" he asked of his emptied out echoing Room. "This wouldn't have been half so rotten if you'd gotten _him _up the damn bum—you know that? I hope you _do _know that. It's not bloody fair, what's happened here. Not right at _all_."


	19. Chapter 19

And then there's this idea. It's a half-cocked idea, it's a Parkinson-spawned idea, and one Draco wouldn't have given a glance to, just a while before.

But it's Hogwarts. And _Requirement._ Mad as a hatter, this notion; mad as an ex-Headmaster's dream.

And he needed him, Potter. He can't deny that.

He _needs_ him.

"Mum, Mum, Mum!" he'd shouted as he came screaming through the Floo in his mother's suite. The elves attending their mistress had scattered, clutching an array of flapping ears large and small and squeaking out muffled greetings. He ignored them all, having no time to spare.

"Darling?"

Now it's…yes, it's _three _turns, and three times three long paces, back and forth, to and fro, and he's sweating and swearing under his breath and it's all likely a huge, huge act of extreme idiocy, but he wants it, so much so. If he's a fool, so be it—he'll be one.

"Why, whatever's the matter, Draco? What brings you home at this hour?"

Hogwarts—the new version—allows its elder students the courtesy of Floo transportation in-House; no longer does Draco have to scuttle outside the gates to Apparate secretly when he's visited by the yearning to see his home or his mother. Hogwarts—the new version—built of the memories and wishes of a gaggle of students and war-weary Profs, volunteer parents and even some changed-up alterations of WWW's products, is a different school than it once was, absolutely. But Magic doesn't fade—Magic doesn't die. No, but it may very well mutate. Or maybe it's 'adapt'…yes, that's right. _Adapt_.

"Mum, what do you know of Muggle fairy tales about princesses and the blasted Room of Requirement at school?"

"Well, now…" His mother reseats herself in her cushioned chair with a sigh and a smile. "Now that you ask it of me, dear—oh, perhaps some tea, darling? Would you care for a cup? You seem as if you could make excellent use of a hot, bracing beverage. And how is your young man? Have you spo—"

"No, Mum!" Really, he's no time—not a moment to spare. "Not now—I can't—just, _please_." He's come as soon as he can after rounds and he needs to know whether it'll work. Whether there's a beetle-wing in brimstone's chance his idea will pan out and bear fruit. "Mum, just _say_—what do you know, please?"

"Hmm." His mother hums pleasantly and settles herself comfortable in her dressing table seat. "Right, very well. First off, darling, what you _must_ understand about Muggles is—"

Draco's awash with a gigantic sense of relief as he listens and listens, taking every little detail in. It's a damned fine thing to have at least one reliably wise parent kicking about—and _his _Mum's the best at knowing all the most secret things, even more so than Pansy. His Mum's a real Slytherin, the traditional sort, champion of the lot.

Still, he's jittering on the hearth mat even as he sops up tidbits of knowledge intently. What his mother knows is sketchy, yes, but it's enough to go on. Enough to justify what he's doing now—and gods forbid anyone wanders along in the middle of the night, well past curfew, because he _will _hex them—he will, and especially Prickwad!

And he's back before Potter's door before he can lose his nerve and give up on it. Before common sense can even summon a cogent argument to dissuade him, he's tearing up the stairwell at a tremendous clip. This is absolutely dotty as all get out, what he's doing, what he's asking of a bloody _door_—and—and well, fuck it. He can't be damned to care about that. A month's too long to be denied what's his.

_His_. It's about time he reaches out and bloody well takes it!

"I want Potter, I want Potter; can you not see I _need_ Potter?"

The ironbound panel remains as closed as ever it can be, obdurate and still. Draco scowls at it and turns again on a quick heel, muttering, muttering.

It can't be this easy, it never can.

"I want Potter, I say! Come on, you rotting old wood bastard, open the fuck up; I know he's in there."

He wants it this easy, though; he's dying in the vine and Potter's just such…such an….he's a cowardly little dick, is what, and not right in the head—and no wonder, really. But the thing is, the real thing is…

Potter's got Draco's baby in him and he's in a fix, a bollocks of a fix, and he needs Draco just as much—oh, fuck it. _Fuck it_.

If it Requires that Draco bawl out his every desire baldly before a closed door in a frigidly cold tower at well past one o'clock of a bleeding morning, he will do—_he will do_.

"I want Potter, I need Potter, let's have him—hand him over, you damned castle! I require Potter, and bugger all this shit—give me!"

It's not exactly 'please' and it's not 'open, sesame', either…but it works.

When the door opens, it's an anticlimax of the worst sort: one moment closed and impervious, the next swinging wide open on silent and oiled hinges. Potter Draco spots immediately past the gape of it and then, beyond that all-important smallish ruffled lump of frown-and-irk crouched upon the floor he catches sight of what looks to be the sole piece of furniture left to their sanctuary.

"What in _blazes_—?" Draco's aghast. "Potter!"

In place of all the usual Pottery bits-and-pieces, there's nothing—nothing. It's as if a wave swept through the room and wiped it clean of everything. Nearly everything. There's just Potter and this weird curlicued basket up on spindly legs by him where he's hunched over.

No—not. It's not been 'left', not at all. The basket on legs is not a piece he recognizes, it's new to his passing gaze—and _it doesn't matter_.

"Potter," he says—no, he hisses urgently, already in and moving fast. "Harry. Harry, _Merlin_!"

He's across the ten feet or so that separates in an instant and glomming straight onto the elusive little git he's been seeking all this while.

"Fuck me, it worked—it bloody well worked!" he swears happily and draws the other man right up, plucking at elbow bend and trouser loop on his worn-thin denims, this small wily bastard, this destroyer of bright shiny futures, this reneger-on-dreams, and Draco embraces him as he goes, in bits and pieces and then as a whole entity, as soon as he can possibly. Tight enough to leave the other man gasping and speechless.

Which is probably best. Potter's face is a bright angry vermillion when he glimpses it; better not to leave any chance for cursing.

"Harry, _Harry_."

He kisses him instead. First impulses are sometimes the very best of them all. Potter can't scream or sulk when he's being snogged, can he?

"Mnph!"

"Shhh! Let me—"

Out of the corner of his one eye Draco sorts out the fanciful piece of bent cane and reeding is an infant's bed. He's seen one similar, up in the Malfoy attics. This one's far simpler; Muggle, obviously, in origin—there's barely a trace of real Magic to it. Still…he's got Potter again. Where the little twat belongs, finally.

"Let me, let me, _let me_."

Well, it's more that he's gripping Potter and he's not about to leave go, actually.

It's all about the bassinet and the absence of _end_. It's the teapots Vanished and the room dusty and bare. It's Potter, stock still in his hold and breathing far too hard for someone so motionless. But…fucking well _delivered_, as Required.

Best way to shut someone up who's not speaking is to kiss them—and kiss them, and kiss them.

"Did you think—what were you _even_ thinking, you great prat?" When Draco's had enough for the moment of sloppy tongue swiping and arsecheek squeezing and assorted other moves to reestablish his claim, he draws back and lets loose of a little steam of his own. "Did you actually _dare_ think I'd ever not come after you? Stupid!"

It's rhetorical, that, and his hands run down between Potter's thighs—casually, possessively, because that's his too; never any other chap's—and caress a familiar cock, standing half-erect already and bound up behind the cold metal of a zipper and the crush of heavy fabric, and it's all right…he's in the same condition. It's all he can do not to push Potter down on the bare floor and have at his arse right there, right then.

"Fuck, Harry!" No, it can't be denied; he could care less Potter's wand is still within reaching distance. So's the blasted cradle—and praise Salazar, Potter in the flesh is finally right in Draco's greedy grasp. He'll not be dumb enough to leave the little git room to hex him, no! "Hiding like that—skiving off on me, were you? Merlin! You fool!"

Potter is so blasted stubborn—it's his middle name, or may as well be. Not 'James' or whatever. "You really believed that would throw me off? Going about sulking like that, saying you hate me. What are you , a kid? What do you take me for, anyway?" No, he's lowered his chin and he's not talking, not saying a word. It's all Draco can do not to shake the man.

"Fuck, Harry," and it's softer and it's coaxing and at last Potter comes to life, rousing feebly, and struggles in Draco's covering arms as they rise up from the impossible half-crouch, stumbling together. "Fuck, don't—don't _do _that."

Draco doesn't refer to the possibility of them both keeling over, off balance—not at all. It's _Potter_.

He's a bit floppy, clearly worn to the nub, Potter, and it's all Draco can do to keep hold of him. Potter's always been slippery, but not like this. Draco hates it, instantly.

"Salazar, what did they _do_ to you in Mungo's, Harry? Talk to me! They didn't hand out crap about my potion, did they? Because it's all natur—hey, Harry? _Harry_."

He's got wet lashes, but he's not crying, Potter. At least not when he finally meets Draco's burning stare. He's sniffing, maybe a little snotty; it's a bit pathetic. And he's so…very…earnest, blinking like that.

"Oh, hell—come on. I can't—don't!" Draco thinks he'll die on the spot rather than let those eyes be watery. He's seen them red-rimmed, he's seen them swollen, he's seen them blacked often enough, by his own hand and his old minions. But _not_ damp—and _never_ wet and empty, as if Harry's gone and gotten lost somewhere inside his own damned arse-backwards head. It's purely unbearable to view. Draco won't stand for it, either. "_What_?" he demands, all his wind up. _"Harry?"_

What emerges from Potter's bruised and snog-reddened mouth is positively the last thing Draco would ever expect to hear:

"Where _were _you all this bloody time, you fucking tosser? Where. _Were_. You."


	20. Chapter 20

Draco could only blink for a long moment.

"Wait, what? Seriously?" he said, when Potter continued to glare up at him, glinty and dangerous-like, and tapping the toe of his one dusty trainer all over the bitter end of Draco's shiny left loafer. "What are you even talking about?"

"Where. Have. You. Been?" Potter repeated, in the exact tone Draco's nanny elf would use with him when he'd been very young indeed and had given her the slip, had snuck off to the Home Barn, where there was a huge hayloft, and even higher rafters, all incredibly suitable for jumping down from and landing in and sending up huge clouds of sweet-smelling dust when he rolled about and bounced. He'd return for his tea filthy, aching and fully satisfied and Twiggly would always have that Look to her.

Well. It had never stopped him then. And Potter wasn't stopping him now. This was stupid, was what. They'd no need to beat the whole thing to death. Really—they required to fuck. It was their thing, theirs.

Draco swallowed. Slowly, taking his time with it as his fingers tightened of their own accord around Potter's still-wiry frame. And thought very hard, very fast. This was highly unreasonable of Potter...no, no, it was possible Potter was addled.

If he was, it was in large part due to Draco. There was that, yes. Camel, straw, back: not always in balance.

Problem was words—he didn't have any. He wasn't even sure why Potter was asking for them, because what good were made-up excuses and shit like that?

He'd a general idea, once, not too long ago, of what he'd wanted to accomplish in this next little while: '1. Finish Potions essay; 2. Prefect Duties; 3. Shag Potter' was how it went. That particular essay was long since completed and turned over, earning perfect marks as usual. His Prefect rounds he'd always, _always_ managed to complete to his best ability, despite the damnable arse Prickward, and Potter had been shagged, repeatedly. Decidedly, often, gloriously and with tangible result. Just not _recently_. Which was the trouble.

Shagging Potter was the one thing he'd looked forward to, the bright spot—Draco's reward, in a weird way, for being such a 'good lad'. For gritting his teeth in the face of adversity large and small and trudging, inching, _oiling_ forward. And it wasn't that he was feeling romantic about it, this shagging connection, this...this 'thing'—hell, he didn't even know what romance _was_, really? Some gigantic deal or another made up by other people; people like Pansy, probably, who maybe had to slap a good face on the act, a 'public' face pasted on what came down to simply wanting very badly to shag someone else through a damned mattress. Because Pansy had always entertained her little fancies and Draco had never been an utter idiot when it came to inner workings of others, especially the ladies of her ilk and his Mum; he could understand it, a bit—it just wasn't exactly relevant, not to him and to Potter. And whatever—Draco wanted no part of it.

Got in the way, really. Of what mattered.

Thing was, all this time, he and Potter? They'd had a good time, a really decent time of it, in bed and out. Not talking, not chit-chatting away over 'feelings' or making 'dates' or wasting time on petty folderol and nonsense. They got by, each of them, and maybe Potter was a bit dotty in the head sometimes and moody as fuck and maybe Draco could be a bit short-tempered and blinkered and stiff, but…they'd managed. They'd managed better, together.

Statistically. Per the Arithmancy of it (and he'd calculated it out, one fine day, when bored shitless in lecture. Covered a whole page of his notebook, too.)

That was the meat of it, really. And Draco wasn't about to let Potter go and ruin it by _talking_, no. And he wasn't so much of an idiot himself to do that same thing, either.

He ceased blinking; done there, cheers: sorted. He shrugged and he drew himself up, as tall and straight-spined and stern as ever he could be as a Prefect. A bloody fine prefect with a bloody perfect record and Granger could pound sand if ever she thought to pick holes in that!

But, that wasn't the issue, no.

"No. Uh-_uh_," he replied, quietly, stoically, and with a very steely determination poured on, all over his returning stare. "No, Potter, we are _not_ going there." He let himself be just as suspiciously squinty as was busy Potter being at him and he scowled, black and silver and Malfoy. "_Stop_ that. Be quiet. _Listen_ to me. D'you know what we're going to do next?"

He didn't pause for an answer, though he saw Potter's eyes widening behind the smudged lenses and he definitely noted that the dampness that had clogged those stupidly long sooty lashes was all but gone, batted away in the start of a fine temper. And he saw as well there was a mix of outright bewilderment over the fact Draco wasn't attacking him in turn, plus the gradually dawning realization of what it was Draco really wanted—all this, and now, this minute—was blooming across Potter's frowning face like wildfire…which was a pretty damned fucking attractive look, was what. Potter was jittery, twitching where he was held. And Potter was on fine edge, just as much as Draco...and they were close enough together yet to easily sort out each of them was as turned on as any one of Pansy's imaginary Muggle Princes, stumbling his white horse over across some stupid Royal wimpled bint in dumb distress.

Fuck the Muggles; this was real. Real as could be and realer than any damned story, ever. This was his, _his_ Potter.

No—and more than merely turned on, _he_. The blood was rushing hot in his ears and when he looked over Potter he saw all these little things again, the things he'd missed about him: the divot to his chin Draco quite licked to nip, the nape of his neck that smelt so very excellent after Quidditch matches, the fact that Potter was the exact perfect height to step into Draco's arms 'round the back of the shed or down an abandoned corridor and be completely encircled so he could then be completely well snogged. The daring tip to his lips on the one certain side that always proclaimed here was a git who'd give as good as he got or better even than that—those, those were attractive. To Draco, they were a red flag for his libido, a complete turn-on. They were, for want of a better word, hot as fuck. Sexy. Desirable.

They still were, they'd _been_, and no buggering 'feelings' were to allowed to get in the way of that.

"We're going to get off, is what," Draco carried on talking, thinking fast but not really thinking at all, not in depth at least, which was better by far, as this really didn't require a lot of consideration, what was coming next. He gave Potter a little jerk to make certain he'd his full attention whilst Draco was engaged in his little brainstorm of how to go about it, shagging—and maybe persuade him to participate, because they'd a few practical problems after Potter's mad fit of housecleaning, didn't they? And because this was a much better idea than having a Q&A session over who's fecking feelings were more freaking 'hurt' by whom and what other people had to say about it. "So, yeah," he said. "Come on, move it. Right now, this moment. We're not waiting...I'm not waiting." He glanced around him briefly; Potter really had been very thorough, damn him. "It's been too long, and that's it. I'm finished, done up, washing my hands of it—and _why_ in the name of the Three did you have to go and ruin our damned bed, Potter? _That's_inconvenient."

Potter stilled; the Twiggly Look slipped away and his features sharpened.

"Par—what?"

"No, no, no—shh!" Draco waggled a finger before Potter's nose. "Shut your mouth; don't say a damned thing to me except maybe to nod, okay? Right—you can nod 'yes' to me, Harry; I'll take that, but that's it—nothing else. I'm not arguing over this; we're doing it. We _need _do it. And here, fine, hang on, hold up. Make this happen, yeah?"

Draco kept on talking, and talking, repeatedly covering up that always awkward pause that threatened, and hung grimly onto his becalmed Potter whilst he dragged off his school robe, first one arm than the other, awkward as shit, and flung it to the floor. He kicked at it till it was spread out in a messy rectangle.

"I..." Potter gulped, and one hand rose and began to tug at his collar buttons, almost if he didn't realize what he was doing, but his body was doing it for him, by rote. "Oh." Draco grinned at it, and just quickly bit the smile back. "You? Really?"

"Yes. _Obviously_. Here, we'll use this. And you, since you were the one got rid of our bed, you do the Transfiguration, alright? Wand's there. Here, I've got to get off these shoes—they're new and they pinch. See to it."

"N—um."

"Go on." Draco affixed a clearly affronted Potter with a gimlet stare as he finally let go, falling back a pace to hop from one leg to the other, toeing off his loafers. They were new and they did pinch, sod it. "Stop stalling."

"Bu—"

"And don't you dare bolt in the meantime, you little twat; don't even consider it for an instant. I won't stop with a simple Incarcerous if you do. I can Transfigure those Muggle handcuff things as well as you can, you know. You'll not be getting far."

"I—I—now?" Potter didn't bolt, he did nothing of the sort. He just stood there, his feet planted far apart and the flat of one hand absently running over the slight swell of his abdomen, staring away at Draco as if Draco had grown a few more heads in the last thirty seconds. "You want to—_now_, Malfoy?"

"Yes. Absolutely. The bed, please, Harry—make it up. It's fucking freezing in here."

"Urrrrr!" Potter threw up his hands and bloody well _snarled_at Draco, a wordless exclamation of frustration.

"What?" Draco demanded, ripping off his silk stockings. "Potter."

"Grrr, that's what! Oh my god, you _are_ a tosser, aren't you? Fucking fine, then! Fine! I can damned well use a good shag if we're going to!"

"Good," Draco nodded sharply, satisfied. "We're going to. Pillows, too. Use my socks for them, Potter."

"Feh!"

"They're clean enough!"

But…there _were_ pillows and there _was _Potter, in a sudden mild frenzy, his teeth bared as he joined Draco in the general tearing off of clothes. And there was a bed of sorts or at least a softer place horizontal on the floor, wide enough, and Draco followed Potter down to it and rolled over him in one smooth motion, pinning him there.

"I don't," Potter said, and bit his lip, and that was probably meaningful in some way that Draco didn't understand. He shrugged a shoulder. There were a lot of things he didn't understand but they weren't stopping him, not now. "I mean...this isn't over."

"Shh! Front-ways, face-to-face, wanna kiss you when we do it," he muttered into Potter's neck, nuzzling hard, possibly enough to bruise. He inhaled, and it was good. "Need to see my way around this thing you've in you—take some care with it." He bit down hard upon Potter's rigid collarbone and licked the red mark immediately, soothing it. "And don't say a word to me, Potter—just _don't_."

"No." Potter shook his head, lips just parted, exactly the way Draco liked them to be. "_No_."


	21. Chapter 21

Draco follows up on that promise; he's a thorough chap. Slips his tongue and pokes around for a split-second, letting the bitter tang of swallowed snot and the underlying smooth and indescribable taste of Potter soak his taste buds. Yes, everything is as he's left it: the clean teeth, slippery, the wet inner walls and ridges, and Harry's own tongue, twining up. Draco wedges an arm below Harry's head to keep him from shifting and goes deeper, fluidly imprinting his ownership.

_Feels _like the act of taking back—feels _brilliant_. As it did when he wrested back control of his House, by wiles and by show of superior ability and via innate charm he's always had about him. He could make them laugh, he could tell what to do and they'd listen—he could keep them safe and out of trouble, this time if not then. And, though McGonagall seemed to have rethought her momentary rashness in summary dealings with House Slytherin, Draco couldn't trust her anymore than he'd trusted the previous Headmaster. It was better to have him in place, that was all.

It's but a fleeting thought; what he's doing now with Potter is better even than most anything.

"Mmm," he hums, happily, and still tongue-tangled with his quasi-grudging lover he eases his body up and forward, using long thighs to push at Potter's, bending and shoving two shorter ones apart as far as they'll stretch until he's crouched fully over him, Potter's groin wide open to access and his bum cheeks flush with the thrust of Draco's scooting, flexing kneecaps. "Yes, good."

"Mnph," Potter regards him out of slitted green and behind the cover of glinting specs lenses for an instant before bowing to the inevitable and ceasing all resistance.

Draco draws back for an instant to enjoy the view and spies an impediment.

"These go," he informs Potter and sweeps away the specs, casting them off-sides their magical bedding, where they clatter metallically on the chilled stone. "I said I wanted to see you, didn't I?"

Potter makes no reply to that—his lips again occupied—but Draco smiles into them all the same.

He very much likes knowing Potter's open to him once more—he's careful to keep his weight up and off him, however. There've been times when it's been just too delicious to squash Potter flat beneath him, rendering him as immobile as a jarred beetle in their old bed, but this is different again. He's the Malfoy pup growing in Potter to think of and he must—_must_—take all proper care.

He gropes for his own wand and finds Potter's instead, carelessly wedged into the Transfigured mattress. "Oil, now. Almond."

His palm gushes immediately with a pool of it, warm and sliding down his inner wrist, where his pulse beats madly, and it's only a second's work to grasp at both their cocks where they budge together down below. A bit like crossed swords, their respective pricks are, tips blunted and poking. One careful gather- and-squeeze has the both of them gasping.

Draco ceases his oral exploration of Potter's hastily relaxing features to press a single burning kiss to the old scar on the man's brow, swooping down to do it.

"Don't move," he tells him, lifting up on all fours. "Stay." He's been anticipating this next bit for ages.

He trails a hand down Potter's pinkened, perspiration-dampened torso ever so slowly, twisting both nipples as he goes and then caresses the hump. There is one: smallish, as befits Potter's stature, but completely in evidence and very different from the firm trim definition he's been used to from Potter before all this recent spot of trouble they've had. His other hand keeps up the slow pump and squeeze and Potter does move; flinches and can't seem to help it, as his bared eyes clench shut, crinkling at the corners, and he groans heavily at Draco, clawing a hand up.

"Come _on_," he demands, a little breathlessly, chest heaving helplessly as Draco twiddles one teat again just for the pleasure of watching the inevitable result. "_Do it_ if you're doing it, Malfoy."

"Oh, I'm doing it," Draco is quick to counter, low and gravelly. His free hand takes a sudden dizzying dip all down the length of Potter, stem to stern, and grasps wide at his wonderfully available bare bum. Draco angles it just so one finger ends up tapping against the fluttering pink of Potter's pretty little arsehole. He squeezes what he can reach there as well, intently, and is vastly pleased when Potter's jaw drops like a ten-tonne stone on his jutting collarbone. "But…"

"Ahh!"

"I'm not going to pain if you if I do this, am I?" he demands quickly, teasing the interior ring of sphincter with that one well-placed fingertip. "Or the babe—"

"No!" Potter grunts and shoves his pelvis wildly at Draco's straining thighs. "God, no—please just—can't you?"

"Because I'll hold back this one time if you're at all unsure, Po—"

"Get on with it, you!" The green eyes are wild and blazing at him suddenly; Potter's practically spitting, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle to glare down the length of his own body. "Just—do!"

"Huh."

Draco, perverse and contrary, abruptly leaves go of Potter altogether, releasing both his hands from their teasing grips, and grins evilly up at Potter's instantaneous chesty growl. He rears back, balancing carefully upon his kneecaps on the uneven soft surface, and looms over his flushed and slightly irate quarry, but it's only for as long as it requires to charm more oil, and he's sliding knowing fingers around and in before Potter can fling out another rasping command, hunkering down comfortably to do it.

He rests his pointy chin on the smooth sweep of one of Harry's stretched-taut thighs and grins a bit wickedly at the face peering squinty-eyed back at him, making sure to involve that slight curl to his own upper lip he knows for certain sends all manner of prickles of irritation all through his lover. He arches both his eyebrows for good measure.

"Oh, now. None of that."

He's the one driving the bus here, thanks, and he'll be taking his time with it. Been too long a dry spell not to milk this golden opportunity to the fullest.

"Patience, Potter," he teases, eyes alight and gleefully unholy. "You'll be bloody coming soon enough, don't fret."

"I'd better!"

"Mmm, yes."

Thing with Potter is that he's the same…but then he's not. He seems subtly softer, a little less angular and driven, and a bit more…ripe. Draco slurps a trail right around that little rise of belly because he likes it, really very much likes that it's there, and Potter tastes as good as he ever did—and smells fantastic. Smells of Draco, already, as he should do, considering he's been downing a daily dose of _his_ potion for weeks now.

He firms his grip on the base of that quite erect prick, the one Potter's waggling at him in jerky little thrusts of hip, and dives down, head and shoulders, spreading apart Potter's thighs to the utmost with the pressure of _face_.

"All right?" It's not quite perfunctory, but close. He blinks, squints, and sees Potter's caught on fast.

"Yes!"

The fingertips he's been twiddling so fancifully round the edges of Potter's arsehole all this short while slide away, and he uses them to keep Potter as open as possible, grasping one firm buttock and prying gently. It's his tongue Draco employs again, _not_ for talking, and to a fine pace: first pokey and jabbing, then sliding deeper and deeper till Potter's thrashing feebly under Draco's hands and moaning full out. He ensures to circle the agile, tensile muscles of it, to curl it and to lunge in close and plunge it full to the root, plundering his path into Harry's blossoming, sopping arse like a Barbary pirate. And he knows Harry adores this; is totally certain, and wants to give it him, and make him forget, a bit, by bending his squirmy little Potter-brain to somewhere else entirely, so far gone away from this barren cold room Potter will be freed up from whatever mental snarl he's likely in the midst of. Git broods too much, always has, and it's up to Draco to put a halt to it. He can do that, yes, he can. Oh, and t'is a filthy act, an intimacy he feels his due, and Draco revels in it, too, because no one else alive will ever taste 'Harry Potter', nor will ever drip nor force his hot saliva into this man's hole, and have him utterly wrought and dependent upon the knowing twist of oral muscle. _No one else_.

He cannot begin to express the satisfaction there is to that idea. Can't even_ begin_.

"Hah! Yes!" Harry exclaims softly, panting harshly between short syllables, and heaves his bum as close up to Draco's nose as he can possibly manage, pinned in place at prick and hip. Draco increases the pressure at the base of Harry's cock just a little, enough to send his green eyes popping wide. "Please. Yes. More."

There was never any question as to 'more' for Draco; it was more a matter of 'how much?' Did he want Potter coming now or did he desire the infinite pleasure of drawing this out a little longer, till Potter lost his tiny mind skewered on Draco's dick and they both howled out release? Truly, Draco's not so certain he's got the marbles together to make this important decision—Potter tastes headier than Elven wine and magical cannabis tokes combined.

"Fuck," he huffs, pulling out and heaving his way erect. His prick's decided for him , may—or maybe it's something else. Requirement, again—damn it! He straightens his shoulders, rolling his head on his neck to ease a cramp; his jaws dripping down with his own spit. And Harry's arse is wet and red and shiny, the most inviting thing in existence. "Fuck."

_No_—he wants inside Potter and that's final. "Wait!"

"I—can't—'Mmmuh—try—ing! Bast—ah!" Harry clamps a hard fist 'round his own cock, wincing like mad. He's so almost there, it's not amusing. Draco can't bear that, either.

"Just—yeah." Draco shrugs and gropes blindly for a wand—any—and commands "More oil!"

"Fin—ally—you—git—" Harry's doing his best meanwhile to make his legs go wider apart, to tilt up his bum so Draco can have at it, to give, as he needs to, or perhaps it's Draco will go 'round the twist, for once and for all, if he doesn't. Potter does. Sighs and relaxes himself into it, and it's all that it ever was and then so much more.

Oh, bloody Merlin on high, _the relief._

Draco doesn't slam—he glides. Doesn't pinch at Potter's flesh the way he wants to bring him that one impossible inch closer, doesn't bite down on Harry's shoulder and leave a great purpling mark for later. No.

No. No pain. His goal is _no pain_—only pleasure. They've always had that, 'midst the spats and the rows and the bickering, the intense competition on the Quidditch field lately, and the shared lessons they've been paired up at till Potter' deep-freeze treatment began a month or so ago. It's been a bit fun. Potter's a decent little runt, if a loony one, and Draco still can't bear to recall fully the look in his eyes that one day, in his own damned parlour.

He can't bear_ not_ to be where he needs to be—and the feeling is mutual, for Harry's all about taking him in.

There's…there's a certain base satisfaction in that. No, no—Draco knows full well it's not over; this is but a fimsy bandage on an open wound. But still—still.


	22. Chapter 22

There's a certain base satisfaction, Harry realizes, in getting off. A cock up his arse translates to no thinking and no thinking is a feature he could use after a solid month of little else. Well, no: _wrong_. He'd been doing things, just unpleasant things, like trotting about feeling sick and stabbing-achy as his organs shifted and warped, and then simmering constantly with a fury that seemed never to ease. Alone in it, too, for who exactly was there who might even begin to understand his problems?

…Excepting always perhaps Malfoy—he of the 'map it out, Potter, and attack your goal, won't you?'—but then Malfoy was the culprit who'd landed Harry in it. Fucking set him up just by _fucking_! Oh, yes, right—not like Harry hadn't fair ground his teeth to nubs over the irony of that!

Betrayal—it's a nasty word and worst of it is, it wasn't _only _Malfoy. Harry's not an idiot, never has been, and even he can see Malfoy was _used_. As a bloody tool, and by a great semi-sentient beast of a building.

Which still lets the tosser out of nothing, because he must've meant to entrap Harry at some point, or at least been inclined to, and that then taken advantage of.

But he's eighteen, and Merlin help him, he'd chosen to sleep with Malfoy in the first place, and if nothing else, the man was damned effective at making Harry forget all his many woes for a little. Had been, from the start. Yes—shagging. Far better than talking; the Slytherin schemer was quite correct on that point.

But still—_still._

"We're—not—you can't just—"

Harry's got a whole lot to say, but it's a bit difficult, haranguing a git when he's rogering the bollocks off a chap. And it feels brilliant, like there was a hole in him that was gaping and now Malfoy's come along and filled it up again.

"I want—I need—errrrngh!"

What he _needs_ is a re-set, really. Like the Muggles have on their electronics. A way to go backwards, like a Time Turner would, but then—where would he even start?

"You! You're always so—so! Fuck!"

The man's murmuring and muttering, nonsense in Harry's ear, about 'how good' and 'right there' and 'Potter!' He's got this blissful look on his severely good-looking well-bred face, too, which seems a little like half-agony and then half-something else again, and he's just so…just _so_. Himself.

Arrogant and a bastard, stinking selfish in a way Harry can't ever even seem to plumb—it's like a force of nature—and then assured like no one else Harry has ever known. Too bloody smart and handsome as the devil himself, all smooth and blond and sharp-edged, and brim-full of this insanely attractive magical charisma that renders Harry breathless with desire—and always, always has.

Harry's no fool; he doesn't lie to himself. He'd wanted that, badly, and gone after it, and got it.

And Malfoy's got a fix on Harry. A bead, like Harry's a target and Draco's going to bring him down, take him up in his grasp and envelop him completely. Put him in a box, maybe with breathing holes, yes, likely (he's not cruel, exactly, just bone-deep selfish) but _keep him_. And their baby.

"Why—always—ah!"

"_God_, Potter."

Child in waiting aside, Harry's got no idea what makes _him_ so special, so attractive to Malfoy. To Draco, because he'd been 'Draco' for quite a while there, months on end since summer, and it had been a bit super, all of it. Something like 'fun', something like having a mate even closer than Ron or Hermione—a mate who'd shag him and hold him and who wouldn't hold back, either, when it came to sport or a spot of dueling in NEWTS DADA. Having someone who seemed to know him without asking questions, without poking too hard at the sore spots. Who sensed what he wanted when he wanted it and gave it to him.

Of all things, Harry simply cannot understand it, how this one man can be so incredibly contradictory, walking. Brusque and careless one moment and literally overwhelming Harry with a kind of quiet care the next. Because Malfoy has done—there's been too many instances of to not count them; small things, little things, but they add up. Worship, oh, god, but it's worship, what Malfoy, what Draco, does to Harry's body.

Oh…why?

It's a bloody mental schism, to shag the bloke who's spent a great chunk of his life doing his best to—and yet, then goes and—

"Don't talk—I said not to talk. Just fuck—fuck!"

Best to rile him up. And then protect him at the crux of disaster. And then—insult to injury!—to take over Harry's uncertain mind as well as his arse and have his merry way there, have a bloody party! Make himself at home, even. Wreak some havoc on all Harry's happy preconceptions.

It's so confusing; he's _so _angry—and all Harry wants is to come, oh-please-now!

"I want!" Harry moans, and again it's a knife-edge, what he wants and what he doesn't and how terrifyingly easy it is to fall. It's quicksand below his feet, all Draco's little signs of concern, building up in a firestorm that could consume him if he's not careful. Or his expression, when he gazes across the Great Hall or over the rows of desks in a classroom and eats Harry right up with his eyes—and then goes and, like an arse, pretends as though he was never looking, never stripping Harry naked from a distance and leaving him antsy for a touch, just a touch, just a kiss. No—more a filthy shag, stolen right from under other's people's noses.

Yes—like that!

"Harry…Harry. Coming, Harry!"

His nemesis descends upon Harry, literally, collapsing down to elbows and kneecaps and straining every sinew and tendon as he shoots his load of Pureblood spunk. He's murmuring and muttering: 'come with me!' and '_mine_, Harry' and so much it's a load of endorphin-driven babble and nothing more. And his gaze is silver-bright and narrow, and his hands are strong and hard where they grip and his mouth is Harry's Waterloo and there's naught but a bright flash resounding through Harry's mind for the moment.

Naught but Malfoy, Draco. As Harry comes, and comes, and comes till he's shattered, gagging for air.

It's on the bitter edge of perception as he fades out on a post-coital warm front, but there's a very strange shimmering in the air of his Room, like ghosts of_ things_, not people, and Harry's floating, rising up, blinking blearily at what might be…teapots?…and what could possibly be…a carpet?

Rising up.


	23. Chapter 23

Draco comes to out of his doze with a bit of jerk, to find a naked Potter sitting straight up in bed beside him and blinking owlishly about his Room. Sneering, too, in a way very familiar to his audience—from his own morning mirror, that was.

"Bloody. Hell."

"…What?"

He's slow and feeling a little languorous—a brilliant shag does that to him—but he's laying upon a bed, and his robe is again just a robe, as are his socks, and both are neatly folded on the top of Harry's battered old desk. He can't spy his clothes or Potter's but perhaps they're below on the carpet.

There would be nothing unusual about any of this except he could swear on a stack of _Histories_ Potter had destroyed that exact same damned desk beyond all reclaim, and probably not more than an hour or so ago.

_And _the bed.

He estimates it's ticked 'round to three of the clock and thus is very dim, indeed, as the moon's new. The faint light that allows either of them to see anything at all in the dark of the moon is issuing from their wands, also neatly placed side-by-side on the desktop. The eerie illumination extends as Draco's eyes adjust: it's all there, Harry's Room, as it was before, with one new addition: the infant bed.

"Oh. Right, then." Draco also blinks because, really, this is a bit much, even for Requirement. At his elbow Harry's simmering with a quietly passionate white-hot fury. He's quivering slightly and Draco has to restrain himself from touching. Best to let Potter have his little tempers, sometimes. "Hmm."

"_Yes_."

"Seems insistent," Draco remarks, just as Harry turns his glower upon him. "Doesn't it? Your Room?"

"Get out."

"…Er?" Draco blinks a bit, focusing on dark slashes of angry eyebrows and a scowl that would put a troll to shame. "No?"

"No, really," Potter jabs a fingertip at him. "Get the fuckall away from me. _Leave_."

Draco's not having that for an instant. He smiles in reply and it's not a bit pleasant. "As I said—no. Why should I?"

Potter hisses at him, an interesting noise like steam from a kettle, and uses the fingertip to land Draco's chest with a brutal little poke to the centre sternum.

"I don't want you here, is why, and I've got to go myself. Your lot's tame gitwad Prickhead _will_ come snooping, won't he?"

Draco is highly affronted on several accounts. He folds his arms across his abused chest and leans back against the heaps of restored pillows. He's pleased to note his linens are again intact as well. "Excuse me? _My_ gitwad? Since when, Potter?"

"He's a Slytherin, isn't he? Didn't you and the Slug pretty well handpick him? I was told he was some sort of down-on-his-luck cousin or other of yours—and I don't need the aggro, Malfoy!"

"The fuck I did," Draco snaps back, glaring. "Had nothing to do with it—you think they'd trust _me_ to choose faculty, even the small fry? Pfft! Get real, Potter—I'm a Prefect and a Malfoy both but I'm no Governor. And he's no relation of mine, thanks. He was your bloody McGonagall's idea, last_ I_ heard. Some charity endeavour for mildly misguided alumni, I'm sure."

"Still!"

"No." Settled comfortably enough, Draco takes another long glance about Harry's domain, handily ignoring the owner. "Hey, would you look at that?" He twitches a slim hand toward the walls, where glass gleams dully in the faint wand-glow. "Room's got everything set right again, even your horrid attempts at wall decor. Pity."

"Enough!" Lacking a wand—and apparently completely forgetting he can Accio it, Potter lets out a low snarl and goes after Draco in an awkward scramble, two abruptly clenched fists flying. He seems to want to literally push his lover straight out of bed! "I don't care about your opinion—go the hell away, like I told you, damn it all, or I'll—"

"Uh-uh-uh! _Not _on, thank you!"

Seekers are fast people in general; Draco's got no problem ducking whilst catching up Potter's swooping wrists and essentially disarming him.

"Not. _On_." A quick twist on the roll of one cocked hip bone and he's flipped him flat to the bouncing mattress. He's atop his ridiculously irate bedmate before Potter can do much more than squeak, breathless, Draco's weight settling down across his thighs and kneecaps.

Which he does do, the silly little twat—and then looks utterly, insanely irked for doing so.

"Sod you!" he growls instead, and quickly enough. "Leave go of me, arsehole!"

"Cute!" Draco can't help but crack up even as he's suddenly wrestling his struggling Potter for dominance of their bed. Very carefully wrestling, as is Potter. Unspoken between them but quite as large as an dragon in a teashop is the undeniable fact Potter's carrying. "Do it again, please," he teases, and maybe not the best choice, that. "I want to be able to remember the sound of it, for a laugh later."

"Oh—_you_! Pernicious—_bastarding_—scum!"

"Parents _were_ wed, Potter," Draco gasps, weaving and rolling about as Potter wedges himself sideways somehow and squirms out from under him. The slippery little git's taking advantage of the fact Draco won't go full out, isn't he? "Come back here!"

"Hell I will!" Potter gurgles just as Draco succeeds—just barely—on reaffirming his grip at waist and shoulder and really, really tackling him, albeit oh, so, gently, into the wadded up duvet and the wildly spilling bolsters. "Unhand me! Get. **OFF**!"

Feathers fly, just a few. Draco snorts in terse answer, and manages to match up their two faces at last. It's by dint of real effort: it's dark as fuck still and Potter will _not_ cease fighting him.

"Ah-haugh—mm…" Draco gargles as he lays his mouth over Potter's furiously parted lips, pressing down, down until Potter goes silent—blissfully, wetly silent. The battle is become all tongues and teeth in an instant, but at least it tastes grand, feels brilliant, and Draco can worry less about damaging any moving part of Harry, including his internals. "Mmm…"

"Ngh—h'erm!"

Draco notes his prick's hard as iron just about the same moment he notes he's already inside a previously well-used part of Potter. Somehow he's managed to insert his pelvis between those two fit legs and thrust. It's a bit inspired, a tiny corner of his brain whispers, and he cannot help but agree.

Merlin, but none of this fruitless, pointless, asinine _talking_. They're clearly not ready for it, may never be, either.

"Oh—fuck—not aga—!"

Harry quite nicely shuts the Hades up on the second go at it, and the hot-button topic of Draco leaving his Room is pretty much tabled.


	24. Chapter 24

The first brilliant edge of dawn is pouring through the tower's arched windows and bathing the bed in red-gold fire when Harry rolls over with a peaceful groan and goes fœtal, happily clutching what feels against his naked skin like a particularly lovely bit of sateen-brushed fabric. It's soft and warm and exceptionally cosy, in any case.

The tip of his nose is a bit chilled, but that's all right. Rest of him's toasty.

Blinking, he recalls the previous few hours and it's with a sigh of what is most likely only relief he reverses his roll and sees Draco's not physically present. Thank Merlin. He's alone in his Room again.

And…it's his Room again. Oh, yes…about that…hmm?

On his desk, right by his wand, there are two vials of his prescribed potion and a note scribed in quick but elegant copperplate which reads: 'HP, Pomfrey says to drink down a double dose first thing this morning, since we've resumed 'relations'. Read 'shagging'. What a sour-faced old pussy she is. I've diluted it already, you may be assured. Also, eat immediately after or you'll be sick despite it. Catch you later—DM.'

It's when he's blearily finding his last-night's clothes and putting them back on his body it really strikes Harry. If Draco's had time to nip down and see Nurse and then back again, it must be well after his usual wake-up time.

And it is—he barely skids into the Hall for breakfast before the elves are already beginning their usual clear up and other late stragglers in the student body are rushing away again. Malfoys' already long gone, and there's hardly anyone sitting at the long tables; Gryffindor is entirely deserted. The only one still seated at Slytherin is Parkinson and she and Harry exchange somewhat cautious nods across the distance before returning to concentrating on their respective breakfasts.

As with the beams of wintery sunshine that had blared across his naked eyelids and woken him, almost by blinding, it strikes Harry he's not particularly _feeling_ much of anything at the moment. By all rights he should feel furious, or at least be reasonably upset with Malfoy for ambushing him in his own Room and fucking the living daylights out of him after a long month or more of being nothing but a pusillanimous wanker to Harry, harassing him from a distance. He doesn't, though; no, on second consideration, he _isn't_ angry, at all, and the only emotion occupying his rather empty head at the moment is a curious sense of milky serenity, buffered by a huge moat of positive indifference to the undisputable fact he's not properly _feeling_.

This is strange. Likely, it'd feel stranger if he could bring himself to care. But he just…doesn't. He doesn't.

With a sigh, Harry resigns himself to skiving his morning's lectures completely. He chews his marmalade and butter slathered toast instead and concentrates on the physical, staring off into the empty spaces of the higher reaches of the Great Hall with a blank expression. Primarily, he casts his treacle-slow thought process to how very well Malfoy's patent potion is working its way through all the areas of Harry's quite unruly body.

This is new, at least for him, and well, it's not so awful. Overall his body feels pretty well super. A little sore in the nether regions, of course, what with that unaccustomed stretch to the sinews and tendons in his thighs and hips from Draco splitting him open the night before and, too, there's a slight sensitivity to his bum as he shifts now and again upon the uncushioned wood of the bench below him. But that's all.

He's not ill, he's not achy, he's not got the headache that's been plaguing him. Two cups of cooling tea and two slices more of toast methodically masticated do absolutely nothing to inspire him to anguish, ire or upset. Not. A. Thing.

_Well and good, then_, Harry decides, as he rises slowly and makes his way out the door some twenty minutes after his arrival, once more nodding to Parkinson as he passes. He's some research to do and he'd best go and see Madame sooner rather than later. There's the little matter of obtaining an excuse for missing his day's lectures and besides—he's incredibly, insatiably _curious_.

Since when is a good fucking this bloody _magical_?


	25. Chapter 25

Draco spent his school hours keeping a weather eye cocked for Potter, but he never showed up to any of the lectures, nor did he appear at lunch or supper. It provided him plenty of opportunity to reflect upon his rather rude awakening to the day—and Pomfrey's part in it.

"It is, from what the specialist Healers from St Mungo's, have informed us, Mr Malfoy," Pomfrey had related irritably that early—_very _early—morning, knocked up and harried out of bed as she was by a demanding and single-minded Slytherin Prefect, "a wholly holistic mind-body magically-based alteration our Harry is experiencing. You will need pay very close attention to his state from now on and take on direct responsibility for his welfare—and the child's. No slip ups allowed, mind you!"

Draco had of course protested that possibility vociferously: it was not _he_ who'd ponced off in a snit and acted like a complete ninny, it was Potter. _He_ was, he assured her frostily, very much taking an avid interest, and had been, cheers, primarily by way of his potion and by means of his repeated attempts at approaching Potter, and had been unrelenting in his pursuit all this boring long while Potter was sulking. Blame, Draco stated clearly, could not be laid solely at his door for this one.

"Hmm, hmph!"

Pomfrey had provided him a dour and doughty glance, from tip to toe, taking in the details of his mussed day-old garb and his improperly tied shoelaces, not missing a single eyeful of the toothily indented bruising Potter had left as a marker just above Draco's wilted collar nor the distinctly loose-limbed manner in which Draco lounged about in one of her office exam chairs as they chatted. And what could he say to that? A good shag did relax him. A bloody brilliant thing it was, too, as Pomfrey was clearly none too happy with Draco and made no bones as to her displeasure.

"I do _not_ agree. And I cannot say, Mr Malfoy, that I approve of your methods, either. How_ever_—"

The clinical once-over had turned to become a quite brilliantly fierce and semi-accusatory frown.

"_As_ I was in the midst of telling you, young man, It has been made apparent to us, to both myself and our Headmistress, that you were _not_ unaffected either by the doings of this Castle, our beloved school. Your actions against Harry, grievous though they were, were not all solely of your own devising, or so it has been determined by the specialists at Mungo's. Mr. Malfoy, if I may say it plainly, you may count yourself _most_ fortunate they have bothered themselves to explore further your part in this deb—"

Draco swallowed hard, wrinking his nose in distaste; he absolutely _hated _that he'd been used, and by a bloody building at that, but then…then again, on the plus side, the results had been quite definitely along the lines of his subconscious desires…or such as he'd been made privy to. His mother had been very talkative as to that particular point: none of this would've happened if he and Potter hadn't already been shagging exclusively and happily enjoying each other's company. She'd begged him, politely, to recall the damned deLisles.

The damned deLisles aside, it was their _thing_, his and Potter's, as he'd already determined, the shagging. He supposed he'd been perhaps a little thick not to have noticed that the 'happily' was intimately connected to 'exclusively' a great deal earlier in the game. And he was damned sure Potter had not even wasted a brain cell contemplating any particle of such a connection, the oblivious little twat. Nevertheless!

"It was not," he interjected, quietly furious with most everyone and everything at that moment, but especially Potter _and_ Pomfrey, "and _is _not, a _debacle_. I resent that, Madame. Potter and I have been perf—"

Pomfrey seemed to delight in talking over him. Draco fumed as she did it again.

"_Needless_ to say, Mr Malfoy, the urge to ah…erm, _influence _Harry in this particular fashion had to have its dark seed sown from some sour—"

Hah! Really, and only purely logically, Draco had reasoned, it was that wretched tosser MacMillan who was the git to blame for all of it. If he'd not molested Potter with his stinking lips and basely trespassed so blatantly upon Draco's territory, Potter and Draco would've carried on as they always had and Draco wouldn't have been consumed by the terrible urge to rip off the fucker's privates and stuff them right up his nostrils by main force—nor would the completely nutters idea of inflicting Potter with his potent 'dark' seed ever surfaced from the dusky labyrinthine subterranean areas of Draco's primal hind-brain.

...So much. He _didn't_ think.

"Hmph! _Influence_? Source, you say? Blame bloody MacMillan if you're blaming anyone for that, Madame Pomfrey!" he'd cut in sharply. "Cast _that _grabby-hands little wanker out on his theiving arse if you're all wanting a scape—"

"**_Source_**." Pomfrey really had to cease waving her wand like that at students. Draco sniffed. "Ahem! As I _was _saying, you're very fortunate indeed we see no valid reason to expel you altogether at this juncture, Mr Malfoy," she carried on, just as icily and very much more loudly than he, "for the act of complicitous, conniving illegal potion-brewing with clear intent to entrap—"

"Oi!" Draco barked, stung. "You've just _said_ I didn't!"

"**Although,** that is _not _to say the idea has _not _crossed our minds several times this past few weeks," Pomfrey continued stodgily. "_Particularly_ as we have observed the adverse effects upon Harry. But, as you've very obligingly stepped up—"

Draco tuned her annoying speechifying out completely at that, containing himself to simply snorting his sense of overall irk. Of course he'd stepped up! Circe up a bloody Hawthorne tree! What exactly did everyone take him for around here, anyway? He was Prefect, appointed by Hogwarts itself, via the Sorting Hat, and he'd been the natural born leader of his House well before then, for ages and ages! And when had he ever fallen down on a job or not completed a task, once given? Even if the task was one onerous to the extreme and against his very nat—ah, well.

Amend that. He'd _not_ been able to screw himself up to the sticking point of cold-hearted murder, had he? Not even to save his own skin. And he'd _not_ been able to turn Potter over to the blasted Dark Lord's dreadful minions, despite his horrible, terrible Aunt Bella being _right there_ and practically gnashing her teeth to get hold of him—_and _then, too,he'd not been able to harm a single stupid dusty hair on Potter's ridiculous head in the old Room, either, with Goyle and Crabbe that last time, near the end.

"—your potion has proven most efficacious—"

…Even his bloody Cruciatus had misfired, fuck it, and Draco had entertained more than once a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't only because his heel had slipped on the sopping wet tile in Myrtle's lavatory.

"—and was a thoughtful and timely intervention, to your credit. So, due to your relatively young age and consequent lack of mature judgement, Mr Malfoy, and in large part because of the influence of your dear mother, who did take great care to protect Harry in a time of dire peril, Minerva and I have come to the conclusion you two gentlemen are far more in need of the faculty's wholehearted sup—"

All right, _okay_ then. And Pomfrey, sod her, was galloping off on a proper tear, jabbering away a mile a minute and leaning forward in her seat, her hastily Summoned wrapper crinkling starchily about her wide middle as she jabbed her wand in his direction. And ignoring the reason he'd woken her in the first place: Potter and possible peril.

"—port in this very unusual of circumstances instead of our censure."

"Yes, yes," Draco nodded distractedly. "Thanks for that, but—can we just—? Look, it's already almost quarter till and —"

"**Now**, _mind you_, Mr Malfoy," Pomfrey apparently had no intention of allowing Draco a chance to wrest control away, no matter his urgency. "It is not happenstance at all that this is not become headline news in the _Prophet._ A spell has been cast to prevent our students and faculty from discussing it with any person outside of these walls—well, that's excepting the staff at Mungo's, naturally, and your mother, Mr Malfoy, and of course you and Harry both—"

"Yes, naturally, all right, tha—"

"As **we** at least are all concerned to the highest degree over the amount of public outcry this will subject Harry and you to, Mr Malfoy, now and in the near future, and the resultant stress to Harry's nerves. So, if you will consent to also—"

"Yes; I said yes already, didn't I? Fine!"

"Containing and restraining yourself, Mr Malfoy, from boasting about as to the parentage of this child before time and—"

Draco growled, under his breath. Right, so he'd failed at a few tasks. Still, it had all worked out for the best advantage. He acknowledged this highly salient feature silently as he nodded away perfunctorily at Pomfrey's blather about the huge importance of protecting Potter from the press and gigantic responsibility he bore as co-father, and blah, blah, blah, so forth and so on. But...he _still_ had some very specific medical questions that required immediate responses and yes, it was probably best to allow this to run its natural course, so Pomfrey could rid her bloody system of all her built-up resentment on Potter's behalf.

"I get it, I get it! We're to keep our mouths shut tight; we're to do this, that and t'other—quite _so_. Agreed. However, Madame! _If_ we may—" Draco cleared his throat despite the uncommon good sense of his first instinct and brought the front two legs of his chair down with a sharp tap-and-clatter, startling the Healer right out of her diatribe. "Just get _on_ with—as he's _right now_—and I _need_ to know, Madame Pomfrey! Double or naught, with my potion?"

"Ahem."

Pomfrey coughed genteelly into the back of her non-wandbearing hand and flushed a bit about the edges of her pudgy face. She nodded in the vague direction of Draco's bits, as if his crotch bore a plaquard reading 'Have just now shagged Harry Potter rotten and it was brilliant; sod off, and I'll do it again as soon as I'm able. Problem?'

"Er. As to that, specifically?"

She blinked rapidly at him from behind the shield of her spectacles. Which Draco found ridiculous, as she was a bloody Healer by trade and had surely seen in her offices far more often then a mere once a student fresh from another's bed before. And absolutely must know all the workings of a young man's physical nature, bloody by rote.

"_Yes_?" He gritted his teeth at her, resettling his legs and hands so as to politely disguise his lingering condition. "That?"

Of course they were shagging again; it had only been a matter of time, hadn't it? And _of course_ Draco was the one blamed by all for it; that was only to be expected, really. Which didn't for a single bleeding second mean it was the truth of the matter.

Potter, at least, now was aware. Fully damned cognizant; Draco was certain of it.

Potter was at times loopy as Lovegood ever was, but he was no fool, he was sharp as could be when he wanted, and he was perfectly capable of puzzling out what manner of magical transgress had been done to them both, and all by his clunky Gryffindork lonesome. Probably Granger hadn't even needed spell it out for him. Not that it was her business!

Shagging had been their thing, not necessarily a lifelong bond ensured by a mutual baby—Draco, perforce, had been mostly inno—

All right, **no**, perhaps some dark part of Draco _had_ desired it, had lusted after tenable ways and means of taking Potter over completely, but he'd have never tried it on without undue outside influence—at least nothing like this! This was beyond anything rational; it was bloody insane, Wild as to the magic employed—and never the act of a Prefect nor a Malfoy, no matter how hard-pressed, but of a great hulking edifice positively saturated to the mortar with an inordinate amount of bled-out, magically-enhanced essence of spilt-over _emotion_. Gads, was like a bloody Imperius, Hogwart's Requirement! A million candlepower strong and growing! Likely _he _should sue the Board for the harm done him and his future prospects, but there was no point to that, now was there?

"If you could just—"

Yes, well. Music: facing it. Shagging, just now; abruptly resumed and rather vigorous—and therefore a fair amount of concern for the health and wellbeing of the shaggee, right? If bloody Pomfrey would just hop off her hobbyhorse and actually bring herself to the point of answering Draco's damned pertinent questions, then—

"Go _on_?" he urged aloud, just this side of civil, and refrained from tapping a toe in his vast impatience with all this pointless rehashing, but only barely. There was but an hour before breakfast began and he still lacked medical input as to what to do about Potter right now, at half-five in the bleeding morning—because of course there would be ramifications developing this morning. One didn't simply go from racing broom speed to a total screeching halt and then pick it up again weeks later without a single consequence, did one?

Oh, no. Potter and pain—no, it didn't sit well with Draco.

"Ahem. Now, I'm _assuming _you've disturbed my rest because you and young Harry have resumed relations?" Draco rejoiced inwardly; Pomfrey had wended her long-winded way finally—finally!—to the logically correct conclusion. At his slight nod and accompanying significantly arched eyebrow, she huffed for a moment and spoke on, frowning all the while, silly old biddy. "Well, if that's so, it's already been recommended by Harry's specialist at Mungo's that your potion in particular is to be doubled in dosage first thing and then he simply must come for an ex—"

A welter of instruction followed, terse and rapid, and a large part of Draco's mind was given over to absorbing it.

'Rest', 'relaxation', 'relief of stressors', diet—all these were a given; Draco knew the drill, thanks. But—

"I must emphasize that Harry will require another full exam as soon as possible. We'll convey the two of you to Mungo's for it tomorrow morning, I daresay, as soon as it can be possibly be arr—"

That set Draco back on his heels. "Er, what? Why _me_, Madame?_ I'm_ not the one who's—"

"Well, naturally _you_, Mr Malfoy," Pomfrey peered at him quizzically from over top her spectacles lenses. "With all your superior marks so far this term and all the extraordinary research you've been engaged in I'd have naturally assumed you would have taken the trouble to look more closely into your own situation. Or, surely your mother has told you, if nothing else? Hah! And you, related to the deLisles and all! I'm surprised at you, Mr Malfoy. Really I am!"


	26. Chapter 26

"When I say 'requirement', Mr Malfoy, I am being exact. You and Mr Potter have formed a bond. In the person of a child, no less. Both the carrying father and the baby have great need of your magic to thrive. Physicality is required, obviously. In every single way possible. That is your first, foremost responsibility. It is a," the Healer flapped a hand as if it should be obvious. "A necessity."

And Potter's in another room, being poked and prodded. Draco grinds his teeth. He still sees no necessity for being there.

"Now, a sample, please." The Healer points to Draco's privates, barely concealed behind a discreet fold of the damned thin cotton robe the bustling assistant had insisted he change into.

"What, here, now? No!" Draco scowls and shivers. His toes feel frozen. "Certainly not."

"Yes, of course here and now, Mr Malfoy." The Healer isn't snide, per se, but he's certainly dancing on the edge of it. "There's no point in coming here if you don't avail yourself of the services, is there?"

"Look, I am bloody well _not _going to wank off in front of you!"

"Mr Malfoy," the Healer sighs, throwing up his gloved hands in despair, "how can I tell you how much or how little to include in your potion if you don't allow me to test the overall potency? Be sensible."

"I am plenty potent, I'll have you know!" Draco snarls. "Likely a lot more than you!" He ties his exam robe ever tighter about his middle and glares furiously at the hapless Healer. "And I am perfectly capable of gauging my own damn levels, no thanks to you people. Been doing it for more than a month now, damn it!_ Two_ months!"

"I see." The Healer sets his jaw, which is a bit stubbly, and there's bags under the eyes that glare right back at him. "Mr Malfoy, here's the thing. If you don't provide me a sample right now, I shall be forced to render you unconscious and take it for myself."

Draco makes a grab for his wand.

"The hell you—_ouch_! **Oi**—"

There's a short, dark, blank space in Draco's memory, after. Blinking rapidly, he finds himself staring up at the white, white ceiling of the exam room and on the periphery of his hazy vision there's that damnable Healer again, smirking down at him. The tosser. The. Fucking. _Tosser_.

"What?" he mumbles. "What just hap—?"

"A sample happened, Mr. Malfoy—as I told you it would. Thank you for cooperation, such as it was. The results will be Owled to you within an hour's time and any recommendations for adjustments in quantity will be included in the covering report."

"You arse! How _dare_ y—!"

"_Now,_ as I also told you but a moment ago, Mr Malfoy, _you_ are not our only patient today, I'm a busy man, and we'll be in need of this room shortly. Please re-dress yourself and do ensure to make an appointment for a follow-up as you go out. Mr Potter will be along shortly; you may wait for him in the anteroom. We'll see both you and Mr Potter in a month at the latest, barring any difficulties. Good day and best of luck with it."

The door slams behind him, and Draco's 'dark seed' is carried away in a vial. Hexing the door to splinters brings him no lasting sense of satisfaction at all.

All in all, Draco decides some fifteen minutes later, nursing a cup of strong sweet tea and feeling decidedly woozy, he's no more fond of hospital than Potter is.

* * *

Griffindorks aside, when he slides in at Potter's heels he has a definite plan in mind. It's not like this is unusual for them; they've been 'keeping company' for months on end now. Well, except for the blip.

No one—no one—should remark on it, and Draco fully plans to hex the stuffing out of any who attempt.

"Hullo, Potter."

He nods to Granger and Weasley, flanking.

"Griffindorks, good morning."

And neatly executes a sidestep-weave motion that leaves Potter's elbow firmly in his grasping hand and the Griffindorks abandoned off to the near left.

"And good day," he remarks to them smartly as they're left behind in his—and Potter's—wake. Fait accompli, it is.

"Get off me," Potter hisses angrily, jerking away—or attempting to, which Draco has no intention of allowing. "Go away! I'm perfectly fine!"

"No," Draco replies equably, and subtly urges Potter to trot on a little faster, so as to put a decent distance between them and the open-mouthed, mildly enraged and—in Weasley's case—loudly swearing GriffinMinions. "Don't think so. No can do; Healer said."

Potter snorts. "Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Right, exactly." Draco grins down at Potter and affirms his grip on the little git. "But that's for later on."

He endures the sudden flock of birds swooping round their shoulders with equanimity, knowing full well Granger would never hurt Potter.

* * *

Harry's sorted it. At last.

If there's a level of intimacy needed for the sake of the kid, fine, well and good: he'll do that.

If bodily fluids need to be exchanged to facilitate the exchange of two separate magics, for the goal of strengthening the core of an innocent helpless third, yes, certainly; he's in agreement it's a crying necessity.

If he's to be saddled with a child sprung from a family of arrogant snobs who routinely railroad the wishes and needs of others and trample them down without even glancing behind them, he can most assuredly severely limit his exposure—and the baby's—without being overtly rude about it. And he will, yes—he will. He's learnt a great deal lately about the art of hiding in plain sight, thanks ever so.

And if Malfoy believes he can manipulate Harry Potter in any way, shape or form, he's another good long think coming.

And the same goes for Mrs Malfoy, McGonagall, Pomfrey and his own well-meaning mates, and all their bloody agendas, hidden or otherwise.

He's _Harry_, cheers. And that's all he is and will ever be, and now he's plus one, which is his own bad luck and he'll have to make the best of it. But is he Required to yield any part of himself to anyone who stumbles, trots or barges along and wants it of him?

No, he doesn't think so.

So, no. Again, no.

There's a place inside him he can go, and he doesn't need his Room, and he doesn't need much of anything, ever, not there. No one may reach him and no one may take him and no one will ever, ever be allowed to come along and winnow their way inside him again.

And that is exactly how it works out in the cold light of reality, sometimes.


	27. Chapter 27

Cold sex was no sex at all.

It took a little while for Draco to realize—two, three weeks, or thereabouts, and the weather had taken a turn for the worse as the season progressed. A decent shag had been a decent shag for the longest time, after all, and Potter had always been that, no question. He still was, really. But…not.

For instance, when Draco had him trembling and moaning and asking breathlessly for release, his eyes were always closed tight shut against the whole proceedings. Not obstinately, not defiantly, but as if…waiting. Waiting.

And if they should chance to open—if Potter should turn his head to glance the down the length of his spine and check to see where Draco might've gotten when in the throes, or perhaps cease his small habit of biting down upon his lower lip sufficient to have it seeping blood and then actually stare at Draco, as Draco banged away at him, or sucked him off, or licked his arse to sweet oblivion, even then…even then, there was nothing there in the green. Nothing.

A look was merely a look, a confirmation that Draco was atop him, or behind him, or within him, or whatever, carrying on. That they were doing as they should, and as been medically prescribed, and directed by all the third parties they had unwillingly invited into their bed.

_My bed_, Draco had thought to himself more than once in private, and with a great inner sense of satisfaction, upon resumption of what he could only term loosely his 'affair' with Potter._ 'My_ bed', because it was that exact item. He'd staked his claim upon it and had then successfully defended it, for all intents and purposes.

But it was cold, there. Chilled and inert. And not all the tumult and excited happy frenzy building up about the periphery of the two of them—_three _of them—seemed to do the least little bit to alter that phenomenon.

For there was to be a break coming soon: the holidays, and the first of the winter festivals celebrated freely after the demise of Voldemort. The Wizarding world had been cautious at first, perhaps due to all the intensive rebuilding and damage-control that had been undertaken of necessity after the fall of the Dark Lord and Potter's intensely quiet but decisive triumph. But then the world went hog-wild, or seemed like, and even their elderly school was no exception to it. No, more like Hogwarts Castle was wholeheartedly, obsessively, entirely given over to its own rebirth.

Festoons of berried holly and pine swag grew everywhere, upon every banister, over top every entry. Mistletoe balls hung in gay abandon; velvet bows and clove-studded oranges and bayberry candles bloomed across every surface the eye could see, stinking the atmosphere with heady reminders. McGonagall's tartan bonnet ribbons seemed brighter, as if she'd finally replaced them, all the brasses gleamed with polish to an eye-blinding brilliance and every meal was become a feast as the castle elves outdid themselves time and again.

Days crept on, ever darker at dawn and twilight, ever shorter in their fleeting gift of light, and the professors took to imbibing sherry at the High Table at supper and became increasingly lax about assignments. Slug had them making up love potions of all things, and even Binns took several days to tediously lecture on the ins-and-outs of minor Goblin holiday traditions.

And then, something new. There was music, glorious notes of it, where there had never been before, sounding out from hidden corners and the high ceilings, as if Hogwarts had spelled itself a PA system to broadcast it—and all of it celebratory and bursting with a bubbly infectious joy. And the students?

Oh, the student body, from First to eldest and battle-proven, they could no more resist the pulse of unremitting celebratory fever than their faculty and Headmistress could. They giggled and pulled random crackers for prizes, they frolicked about when they should have been revising, they swapped Tables with abandon and sent Owls for mail-order by the dozens. And ate and ate of mince pasties and drank down gallons of mulled cider and hot, nutmeg-citrus flavoured chocolate all the while. Too, they formed sudden small groups and made laughing sorties upon the edges of the Forest, gathering yet more greenery, oft'times assisting Hagrid in his endless quest for the Yule logs required for every hearth and floo, and then all adjourned as a body, a frivolous horde, as often as they could to the village to indulge in a spot of extravagance at the newly restored shops.

Draco set his back teeth and soldiered on, because the duties of a Prefect were still as they ever were and the halls would become chaos at night if he allowed it. And he begrudged every second of his rounds, for Potter awaited him after, up in his Room, patiently marking time till their nightly assignation and Draco—he was eager.

The world was eager, more like. To crack on with it, this act of living. As if everyone still breathing had at last re-awoken and realized they'd _arrived_. At the unthinkable, the other side of it.

It was a season of merry madness, an outpouring come bursting through the staid walls of routine the world at first had been so insistent of desiring, of resurrecting. For they _had_—the people had desperately needed their 'normal', their 'old lang syne', their habits.

Excepting Draco, and naturally also Potter. They weren't the same old, same old; oh, no. Hadn't been, not since that first heated, rude glance exchanged in the flagging days of June. Hot and dusty, streaked with sweat with hours of solid incantation under their respective belts, and engaged in the laborious process of restoring the Quidditch field, they'd stopped to bicker over the placement of this or that, didn't matter.

The remains of the old equipment shed had proved a convenient place for two young men to release a fair amount of mutual tension. And furious, fast wanking was much preferable to hexing or fisticuffs. They got off; brought off each other, by hand and by mouth, and made no bones about it, after. Did it again, soon as they could—and again, and again. Went one better, too, as Draco sorted out Potter liked it up the arse, hard, quick and often.

That he could do, thanks. That he had done, to their great mutual satisfaction. They shagged everywhere they could, every moment they could safely steal away; it had been a huge lark, all of it.

And they got off, _still_, and it was good as it ever was, and Draco's cock was satiated, and he always managed somehow, no matter how tardily he arrived, to sleep a few hours away each night in the peaceful sanctuary Potter had created, not minding in the least that in Harry's Room, thankfully, there were as yet no signs of impending Christmas, Sol Invictus, nor Mōdranihtnor Hogmany nor bloody Yule. No candles alit at the darkened windows where they curved away, following the lines of the structure, no boughs of greenery nor chiming silver bells; no bloody nutcrackers, bowls of filberts to be broken by them, nor childish snow globes to be shaken, nor a single dram of wassail, myrhh or frankincense, or the populace's general silliness and plastic excess, bought cheap on offer at a local emporium. And no bleeding music, insidious, not even a single carol to be heard on Potter's funny antique Muggle twirly device.

And Potter? Potter was ever so hot as always was, as warm of skin and lip and jiz as he'd ever been; that was the main thing. The man had always had a tendency to run up to the boil, leastways when he was around Draco's vicinity—it hadn't changed. He fucked back with a will, was never quiescent about it, and spared no effort to find that ephemeral pleasure and take it, make it his own. The fiery spark between them, it had never died down to ember, had never been fully banked. Even in the failing of the Old Year, as the days dimmed down to nothing much and a damp chill settled like a blanket over all, overcast and redolent of snows down from the mountains, it was there. It _was _there—Draco was _not _mistaken.

He simply could not get at it, the root of it. The meat, the essence…Potter.

Potter. Those eyes were as blank as the pages of his own unmarred notebook. As empty as a barren field, salted.

He was sitting bored to tears in Astronomy as it turned out, idling an hour away watching Potter bending his neck over his sloppy note taking and exchanging the occasional pointed glare with Weasley when it came to him, all unsuspected, a slow traveller drawing up upon his mental doorstep after a long and unfamiliar journey: he'd _gone away_, Potter had. Harry had fucking well checked out on him. Days, maybe weeks ago, when Draco hadn't been looking.

Gone away. To where Draco wasn't invited, and simply could not go.


	28. Chapter 28

He'd not believed there was any part left that was soft in him. Soft was for sissies and namby-pamby boys. He'd never been soft, except maybe over his Mum, and that was all right—it was expected. No, he'd never before been flayed wide open and left completely gutted either, not even when Potter had pulled his temper tantrum and told Draco he was downright, outright_ hated_.

It had only served to fuel his anger, that. Made him more determined. He'd something good, he wasn't letting it go. Wasn't allowing Potter the chance to muck it up, either.

They all wanted better things, didn't they? The ones who'd made it, who'd lived? Even the defeated, even them, they wanted it as much as they desired their next breath. And Draco was no exception. He'd make hay, he'd live it up, he'd drink deep of his days because he had them to quaff.

Potter—Harry? Harry had given them him. Harry had given him…so much. And then Harry had taken it all away again.

Sliced him cleanly off at the knees even as he'd been grabbing after it, believing he had it.

It, it, it—was it pain, this? Was that how one defined the indefinable?

_Draco_ and pain—he'd never considered it in quite this light. It had always been physical, mostly, and to be brushed off. Or his pride, perhaps, that had taken a beating, but he'd learnt pride was false coin and that wasn't so bad a lesson, after all. Vastly practical. He'd made good use of it, cheers.

But never had Draco been so aware of that strange space in his chest, or that empty room in his head, or his stupidly naïve, absurdly ridiculous assurance that if he simply kept at it—at it and at it, never flagging—there'd come a time he'd win. He'd _win_.

He'd won _nothing_. Naught. Potter was…Potter was _his_ Boggart.


	29. Chapter 29

It's best characterized as a 'swimmy wriggle'.

It's a far cry from the twisting, wrenching experience of being made into a woman on the insides. The idea of that had both sickened and fascinated him, but apparently it was how it was accomplished. Like a chameleon, Harry had concluded: he'd morphed into a Wizard of another colour altogether. Maybe purply-red, like a bruise. Maybe a sort of stomach-churning avocado-aubergine shade. Maybe.

Or, perhaps it was more he was like Tiresias, some old Greek chap whom Hermione liked to spout off about, as if the trials and tribulations of a man dead these two millennia or more could shed light on the living—

Oh, now. _Whoa_, there. Harry's not even thinking to go there! That's miles and miles into territory he's not comfortable with, at all!

Leave that to the real scholars, the pendants, and maybe to Prickwad, who'd a hopeless pash for poor Parkinson and kept slipping her notes with shoddily written poetry on them. No wonder the poor girl looked so downtrodden; no wonder even Hermione felt a bit sorry for her.

Harry has his first laugh in what seems like eons, and it's rusty and sour-gruff and entirely private, situated as he is in the very rear of the Library. Where he's retreated to escape Hermione's clutches, oddly enough, as she won't think to look for him there.

Truth be told, he has time enough of his own now, and though he was never the best student, he could manage well enough without his hand held. And, his revising for his studies and the upcoming NEWTS aside, he had so much more time to simply be by himself, what with the baby coming.

No responsibilities, then, other than to stay alive and remain healthy—ah, yes. Well, that old refrain was familiar, too. But no Quidditch. Once again that had been disallowed, though this time by a stern Pomfrey. No heavy lifting, no unmonitored incantations, no Muggle sex toys and no prolonged broom flights or Apparates. No reconstruction efforts, either, as they drained his precious magic and he needed all he had and then some, to hand off to the swimmy wriggle.

Name of Malfoy, that thing inside him.

Speaking of…Malfoy was looking pretty hollow-eyed and grim, lately. He was quiet, too, which was a damned pleasant change from his previous blather and chatter. As if words had been chosen as his new social oil and he always seeking to ooze his way in and out of situations. And then all once, abruptly, the contrary git wasn't using them anymore. They might've exchanged seven consecutive sentences in the course of the day so far and Harry didn't expect much decent conversation out of the night to come.

Didn't want it, either. He'd nothing to say to Malfoy now, _nothing_. And he wasn't about to relate any news of the swimmy wriggle. Malfoy needn't be given any part of tha—

_Oh_.

Harry caught his breath; swallowed hard enough to feel as though the inside of his tightening throat was scraping dry. Raising his reference book on Common Wafting Charms, he bopped himself plonk on his fading scar with its dusty binding. Enough to create and audible thump. Enough to bring his musings up short and halt them in their tracks, screeching and wailing and….

Bitter. Lemony-tart and bitter as ripe yew berry…and as bloody deadly. Poison, it was, the coil inside him, and wound entirely too taut. See, he'd made the most of the rather awesomely unattached sensation regular shagging had lent him, and he'd done it deliberately. Hide the heart inside the body, bury the mind ever deeper. Like Occlumens, a bit, but…profound. He knew how to do it, too. After Sirius, he knew.

Professor Snape _would_ be proud of him, yeah? Except, probably not. Not _now_.

Not quite the exact same thing as occlumency, of course, but not a lot different, either. It was only that he was old enough now, wise enough now, to _not_ strike out, to _not _flail about and point fingers—and wands!— uselessly—or blame people that might not be entirely blameless but also weren't scarlet-dyed guilty and evil. Evil? Hah! Shit _happened_; gods, but that _was_ something Harry understood. Shit _did _happen.

And he knew of evil, too. And it wasn't that, the wriggle. Just…it was—it was a something he had to cope with. Adjust to. Despite it all, including his own wishes. Like so much else shit, it had been handed him and he must needs take it up and simply _deal_. The hand dealt him.

And not waste time. No, not that, either. Hadn't he said he was never going to waste another moment, once? Hadn't he sworn to live, to live for the ones who couldn't? Colin?

Even Crabbe. He'd fucking sincerely sworn to live for _Crabbe_, damn his Gryffindor idiocy, and wasn't that idea a stupid point he and bloody Malfoy shared in common? What were they, mental?

Bloody Crabbe. Bugger. _Bugger_.

Still…the swimmy wriggle, he felt it more often. More and more often and sometimes he had the oddest urge to speak to it. Say something reassuring, perhaps, or apologise. Say he'd not meant to be quite so…quite so. Recently, that was.

Or maybe even before that, and he'd not realized. Had thought it was only Ron who was off and gone a bit twisted.

No, poisonous. So…frozen up. So.._hollow_. He'd been that, had chosen it as the best possible alternative. He was that, still.

The swimmy wriggle, however, had rather a lot to say to Harry, whether he cared to hear it or not. Been talking to him, all this time. Silently but so much there, in its tiny movements, its pathetically feeble hands striking his magically-made uterine (he gagged at the very concept, but there it was, wasn't it? Faugh!) walls. Its very heartbeat, distinct from his own, and seemingly slightly faster somehow, and heard loud and clear in a sterile exam room at St Mungo's—all of those signals and more spoke reams. Volumes.

If he cared to hear. If he cared to really, really _hear_.


	30. Chapter 30

"Blood, Mr Malfoy," the Healer said. "Finger, please."

Draco stuck one out and only barely kept himself from flipping the man off. He scowled as an extracting needle was stuck unceremoniously into the tip of it and prevented himself from jerking away by gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes at his hoity-toity medical assaulter.

The bloody git and his bloody 'samples'! Draco still hadn't forgiven the man for his actions the first time they'd met.

"Hah. Seems you use this one most often?" The Healer whipped away his tiny vial with practiced ease and passed his wand over the welling droplet of blood his needle had left behind. The barely visible wound closed up immediately. "Might want to switch out, Mr Malfoy. You've quite a collection of small scarring there. Now—saliva. Spit, thank you."

A small cup was shoved under Draco's nose and he was motioned impatiently to lean over it and produce as commanded.

Draco did as he was told, pursing his lips and deliberately not speaking. It was Saturday noon and he and Potter had been bundled off to Mungo's for their routine exam, his in the one room, Potter in another. He'd not once been asked to accompany Potter, either. Was always relegated to the anteroom and made to cool his heels for ages after his own, much shorter-in-duration exam. Who knew what they might be doing to Potter in the meanwhile, these interfering Healers? He certainly didn't!

Bloody specialists! If Draco hadn't needed their services so very much, he'd make certain to tell them all where they could fucking stick it, especially this Zook bastard!

"Very good. And the perspiration I requested you bring along?"

Healer Zook was the best there was, or so his mother had assured him. Best available. Or rather his entire practice was, and it employed several very highly rated specialists, knowledge in the fine but quite arcane art of guiding to fruitful completion male pregnancies and live births.

"Here." Draco passed along the tube containing the honest sweat wiped off his brow, put there by an early morning's bout of mucking the half-giant's Thestral stables. Just this morning, actually, as Saturday was his usual appointment for that filthy business.

"Hagrid," he'd asked once, though they seldom had much to say to one another, he and the half-giant, "Professor, why Thestrals? Pretty morbid, if you ask me."

"Hmph." The lumpish man had grunted, busily hefting a full two bales of special fodder into the largest of the stalls, where a mother Thestral was kept with her new foal. "Hmph. It's er? Saw me first death as a babby, y'know? My old granny, Merlin rest 'er soul."

"Yes?" Draco hastily tacked on a quick 'I'm so sorry to hear of it, your loss. My condolences, Professor,' though he'd no interest whatsoever in the half-giant's family.

He'd little enough interest in the Thestrals Hagrid prized so much, either. He was only doing this to prove a point to McGonagall—and the world, for that matter! Slytherins were perfectly capable of a little hard work; he'd be the shining example of it, wouldn't he?

"S'no matter; she were an old, old leddy by then, but thanking you, Mr Malfoy, all the same. Fer your kindness." Hagrid shrugged. "Saw these 'ere pretty ones flying o'er our lands not a lot later. Thought to meself they was—they was, well!" The larger man barked out a huffing laugh as he clapped Draco hard across the centre of his bent back, nearly sending him flying into the stall with the one single Thestral stallion. "Well enou', _I _thought!"

"Whoa!" Draco exclaimed, stumbling furiously. He didn't fancy much being kicked in the head! "Oi! _Watch _yourself, old ma—er, sir!"

"Sorry. Do'an know me own strength sometimes, no," Hagrid grinned at him, unrepentant as always. "Anyways, them's flying like that, all sleek-like and in close-by formation, y'know it?"

Draco nodded as if he did, though of course he didn't. He'd only ever seen Thestrals in captivity and staidly trotting about on the level ground, and only that because the bloody Dark Lord had been cruel enough to murder that poor Muggle professor right before his very own eyes, at his very own own dinner table—and then of course later, after, there'd been the dungeons and those poor, pitiful Mug—_ah_.

"Oh." He'd swallowed a lump, blinking hard and fast, and raked as quick as he could."Yes, right, formations. Go on? You saw this, and?"

"Well. That done it fer me, do'an'cha' know it?" Hagrid acted as though he never noticed Draco's sudden blanch or the unwanted, unexpected moisture dampening his eyelashes, nor his pace, which had accelerated. "Ta sight o' that! Wanted some of me own a'rter, to care fer. They were _that_ pretty, heh! Made me think somethin' good came a'ter a death, these 'un's." A huge hand passed quickly down the nose of the mother Thestral, caressing it. "S'like there were somethin' to make up fer it, yeah? You follow me thinkin', Mr Malfoy?"

"…Yeah, alright," Draco had mumbled, toiling away with his mucking fork and barrow. He didn't glance up at all. "Sure…something good."

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy." Healer Zook's practical, sensible, incredibly cool tones brought Draco back to his present circumstances with a start. "And now I need some tears of yours, please. If you would cry for me?"

"No!" Draco jumped violently upon the cold, barely passably padded surface of his table. "No, no, I can't, sorry. Can't cry on command." He swallowed, fastidiously wrapping his paper-thin exam robe about his waist with a jerk. "In fact, I _never_. Never cry, that is."

"But you _must_, Mr Malfoy," Zook chided him, sitting back with his empty cup for the tears Draco wasn't planning on shedding caught up within his gloved hand. "Often enough, for _your _potion. I must say, I see no good reason why you cannot give over—"

"That's different!" Draco frowned furiously. "Completely, entirely different. Those aren't real tears, Healer."

"No?" Zook's eyebrows rose curiously. "Then… what are they, Mr Malfoy? As your potion is completely ineffective without the real thing in it. What _have_ you actually been providing Mr Potter with, all this time? Some ersatz brew?"

"Ahem." Draco cleared his throat, glaring with all his might. "No! They were real enough, of course. And naturally I've not been providing Potter anything less than the best of the best of 'real things', thank you so much. Did you even begin to think I'm that mental as to try to substitute an ingredient that crucial? Hardly! But, _no_. No, I'm not about to indulge in a little cry before you, Healer—that's entirely out of the ques—!"

"How about this, Mr Malfoy?" Zook interrupted him coolly. "Owl me some, along with the semen sample I was just about to request of you. That should serve both our purposes admirably, even if there is a bit of an unfortunate, _un_reasonable—"

"Unreason—**_oi_**!"

"Ahem!" The man matched Draco's heavy frown line-for-line, all across his wide, broad forehead. "_Delay_."

"Right," Draco replied promptly, sitting back and wriggling his cold arse on the exam table. "Fine, why not?" And, why for the love of Brede, were these rooms always so arctically conditioned? he thought idly, and firmly tamped down the surging sense of relief Healer's sudden suggestion had brought him. "Yes, of course. I can—I can do that."

"Good and well, Mr Malfoy," Healer Zook replied pleasantly enough, rising to his feet and settling his white robes about him. He slotted his Healer's wand into its holster with nary a flourish and made his way to the curtained doorway. "Then I do think we've finished our work here, for the moment. You may go. I'll expect your Owl very shortly, shall I? Oh—and do make another routine appointment on your way out, will you? Mr Potter will be along as he's able, of course. A good day to you, Mr Malfoy."

Left alone, Draco stared down at his fingertip. Yes, it was scarred, and naturally enough. Months gone now, and it required of him some of the most basic of ingredients, his potion—no, _Potter's_ potion.

Blood, sweat, semen, saliva—tears. All of them his own, and all of them honestly acquired. For the potion, to keep Harry from pain. For the child, to ensure it was healthy and growing—and happy enough to stay safe inside Potter where Draco had put it. Months more of the potion to come yet, too, and this wouldn't be the first or the last time Draco would be called upon to do the very last thing he wished to do—and of course he'd play along, as he must. For Potter. The wanker.

Oh, and the tears? His tears? They were real enough, yes, no matter what he might tell Zook or anyone else who might be foolish enough to question his veracity. He'd not been lying, no.

At first it had been nothing sheer temper, nothing more. To make himself force out a drop or two of saline and drool from his own eyes—bosh! No, he never did cry anymore, honestly—what was the point of it? Whatever had been the point of it? It did no good; it changed nothing! But then…

Thestrals. They were, in actuality, rather beautiful in their own funny, scrawny, bat-like way, just as that huge bumbling old git claimed they were. Something good come out of death, right! Draco scoffed at the very idea…and then when those large liquid black eyes met his time after time, over the tines of a hay fork or the curve of a shovel, and lingered, knowingly, he felt as if he_ could_ cry. That he _would _cry, in fact.

It was just that he'd been smart enough to do it later, in privacy. On his own, where no one would ever catch him at it. Call him out as a snot-nosed coward or, worse yet, a sentimental fool. Because Draco wasn't—never was he. Never was he.

'Cry', Zook had told him. 'Wank', he'd commanded. As if it were all so easily managed, when it wasn't at all. Well, mayhap the wanking…

Draco blinked at the sight of his own thin hands, twisting themselves in his lap, all unseeing. Problem was?

Problem was, if this whole situation went on like this with Potter, grinding along in just this brittle, bitter, frigid manner, he wouldn't be needing his stupidly lovely Thestrals so much. No, he wouldn't.


	31. Chapter 31

"Christmas," Malfoy said quietly, in the still dead of the night, and it was awkward.

Harry opened his eyes only to stare blankly, blinking for focus, as he really could not see much more in the velvety dim than twin gleams of rolling eyeballs, opaque grey and glinting in no-light, a shimmer of platinum fringe, shifting, and maybe what looked to be a grimace of quick pearly canines, flashing. More of a snowy impression of movement than anything else, the man in his bed. Who promptly rolled over and took a knackered but properly well-shagged Harry into his arms with a hasty jerk.

"Christmas, it's coming," Malfoy went on, settling them back against the banked cushions, with Harry arranged half-pulled across his broad bare chest and half-sprawled on the mattress still, the both of them favouring his bulging abdomen. "You're aware."

Malfoy's chest. Which smelt of sweat and sex. Moss and lemon. Maybe a hint of vanilla. Harry occupied his mind with sorting it, what Malfoy smelt of when he was spent, having only just fucked.

There was a further tense, uneasy pause…moments of it, creeping by. During which Harry swallowed back bile and thought furiously. Thought—for it was grinding down to bare metal, it was descending to the level of_ need_ vs _want_. His mind darted about, down this avenue and up that.

Yes, 'it' had been coming, this moment. Dreaded. Inescapable. Hogwarts was one thing, anywhere else was entirely another.

"It's coming along," Malfoy repeated from a little above Harry's line of vision, voice gone gruff and a bit creaky, as if he'd cotton-mouth or something equally ghastly. He licked his lips; Harry could hear him doing it, could feel the ruffle of them moving in his own hair. "Very soon now. Er. Where?"

"Where?" Harry echoed smartly, for it was blanket-dark in his Room and he really didn't think Malfoy could see every small twitch of his lips as they replied nor any lapse of his carefully bland countenance. He was rather counting on it, actually. "Yes?"

"_Where _will you be, then?" Malfoy didn't lift his chin at all, not even curious as to it, apparently. His voice was muffled by where it rested but Harry could make out the strangeness of it still. Strange, as if the question was dragged from his throat, as if he dreaded the asking of it. "Your plans for hols. Er…in particular, this year?"

Harry swallowed. Clenched his eyes so hard they hurt his head.

Oh, _so_ fucking awkward, all of it. There was, per Requirement, only one answer to that: Harry would be where Malfoy was, or vice versa, and only due to this alien life form which demanded it. Harry _would_, by demands of physical constraint, _not_ his own, and due to that only, _be _with Malfoy—the git didn't even need ask! Why, in fact, had he? Why even bother?

His time was not his own. He'd no real claim on his own days.

For that matter, his belly was **not **his own. Every single day that was more apparent. No, it was twice its regular size and soft—and hard!—and _growing_. Growing. He was a stranger to his own mirror, a funhouse reflection. Swollen at ankle, at wrist, his features puffy, his mop of hair thicker and bushier than ever before. And his arse? His arse was nothing like his arse was once; he hardly knew what Malfoy saw in it.

…Hardly knew. Excepting the damned bastard seemed entirely…well, entirely unfazed. Not put off at all, by any of it, any change, large or small. As if Harry were exactly as he'd always been, in summer, in the passing autumn, and contrarily, nonsensically, as desirable still as Malfoy must've found him then—_what_?

"…Mother?" A gentle cough, barely a sound. "Mother."

_That_, Harry did not get. Clearly, he was nothing like. The months had taken their toll: he was rounded, he was slower than a banded sloth, he was fat…no, he was really, honestly puffy. Water-laden and useless. Not fast, not quick—_not_ 'Harry'. And it all seemed to make no discernible difference to the shag-mad twat who crawled into his bed each night, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but always there, in the end. For a space of hours only or at times until morning broke and they both burst into a spate of maddened activity, scrambling for the loo, and for breakfast, and then lectures.

"And I," Malfoy croaked on, adamant but unseen as Harry had once more closed his eyes against him and his terrible, terrible line of pursuit. He buried his face gratefully into the warm hollow of Malfoy's shoulder joint and cringed, wishing desperately he could stopper up his ears in addition. "_We_ would like it very much if you came. To Malfoy, that is, for the holidays."

Oh, _no_—Harry wasn't saying a word, not a word.

Silence—oh, deader than the Dead Sea and as saline-dry. Malfoy's fingers tightened, his smarmy mug pressed sharply into Harry's hair, cattycorner wedged, grimacing, and so fiercely a hank or two tugged painfully.

Harry had the distinct feeling they'd be stuck in bed forever if he said nothing; that Malfoy would wait and wait, till there were cobwebs on the sheets and the two of them simply expired from waiting.

"Um—'hem." He winced at what came out of him, but then again, he wasn't willing to simply hop to and _agree_.

Not a reply at all, that, but it seemed to be all it required. The man wrapped about Harry started up again, as if he'd only been waiting for the slightest sign of encouragement—the very slightest.

"Mother. She has extended—asked. That you do. And I— I need to adjust—that is, we'd have the time then for me to alter—ahem." Malfoy seemed to be choking; perhaps he'd sucked in some of Harry's hair by accident? "Alter a bit, that is, the potion's components. It's not—it could be more—if there's time to spare, then I could—adjust…it. To your liking. Your…benefit."

Oh—fucking _awkward_.

A set of stray fingers slipped cautiously, lightly, till they discovered the round of Harry's belly. Where they settled, possessive, and spread wide and warm.

Harry flinched where he lay. There went the Weasley's, right out the door, and their sparkly giant Christmas tree with, and their groaning holiday table, abounding; there went as well any corollary thoughts of his retreating to Grimmauld instead. To silence, and to peace.

No, no. _Requirement._

"It's—Healer Zook has strongly advised—"

Malfoy of the silvery tongue was stumbling, there in the dark. Struggling and as incoherent as ever he got. Tense-like, and caught up and embroiled in this whole act of asking of Harry to come, as if it were some grand favour Harry would be doing him and not what it was, in reality—a necessity. And was clearly as wretched over it as Harry was, as if all his bits-and-pieces of words were but ineffectual stabs in the dark, ways of prodding a calamity into something resembling what passed for 'normal'.

"Adjusting." Harry can hear Malfoy's teeth scraping on each syllable, right in his one ear. "There's too much of—and I—_if _you came, I think, for a week—a week—"

Malfoy would've never have asked Harry along if he didn't need to, never. One didn't invite one's convenient piece of arse back to visit one's precious Mum on a lark, no. Not for a holiday. And Christmas was…Christmas was sacred. Wasn't it?

Harry knows he's bruising; he can feel Malfoy's fingertips and chin digging in and they are not kind, not kind at all. They bite and it pangs. He's likely to turn up black-and-blue, come morning, all down his ribs, on his hip, even on his wildly messy part, right down to the sensitive skin of his scalp.

"It's." Malfoy shudders faintly; Harry feels the tremor, banked against his own body, as if he were a buffer, meant to absorb. "Only a week."

"Yes," he says at last, as it's unbearable, this. Cruel and horrible and completely unnecessary to boot. "_Stop_. Yes. All right."

The gasp is soft but immediate. "Potter?"

"All _right_. I'll…I'll come."

"Very well, then; thank you. Good night." That response was a bit loud, so much so Harry startled. The harsh hands eased up instantly, though, patting at him. "And…pleasant dreams, Potter."

But that last few words, that meaningless phrase Malfoy said to him every night, and so polite with it—it was soft, and nearly inaudible, and the movement of Malfoy's lips felt like kisses on Harry's flattened hair, though they couldn't be—and they weren't, tactile as Malfoy was. The man doesn't kiss anyone unless there's a reason for it.

It is _not_, Harry tells himself as Malfoy does instantly shut it, and then promptly acts as though he's sleeping, or trying to, as it's very late indeed. Oh, it's very late indeed, so late it's more 'early' and it is not as though Harry wishes it. This? It's not as though it's something _he _would ever want, being thrown together with Malfoy in private, away from Hogwarts, parted from his friends. His friends, Harry thinks, might very well be arses themselves, at times, but at least they were _his_.

The Malfoys, _en famille_—as in, Draco and Narcissa? Oh, Merlin.

Harry cannot imagine a more perfectly evil comeuppance for all his sins, real and imaginary, than a week spent with _that_.

He sighs. One week. Just one week. And all about him Malfoy breathes steadily, easily, as if truly sleeping—except for a faint little hitch on the exhale, now and again. A sound that is so carefully controlled Harry could almost sincerely convince himself he was mistaken.


	32. Chapter 32

He knows what he damned well looks like. He doesn't need anyone pointing it out.

"Draco?"

Certainly not Pansy. Please god, not Pansy.

"Draco, I think that perhaps we should—"

"No time, sorry. Later?"

He doesn't wait, he daren't. Girls, and their habitual habit of knowing all about one—they aren't what he can stand, not now. He's out.

"Malfoy! Malfoy."

"What? I'm—"

"Malfoy."

Except, there's this one girl and, ah, Auntie Bella? And she, all through it, her courage—it'd been terrible, and_ he_. Well, he'd not been able to breathe, not during the whole of it, and he'd admired—no, more he'd _known_, in his gut, she wouldn't, ever, give—

"Malfoy, it's about Harry."

It brings him up short; he can't help it. She'd slapped him once but that wasn't the point.

"What about Harry?"

He pivots to face her and it's the last thing, the utter last thing he wants, is coming face-to-face with either of these two, but she's forced it—and he owes her. Knows he owes her.

"What," he repeats slowly, when an immediate reply isn't forthcoming and she wrinkles her nose at him and bloody fucking snorts in his general direction, "is it, Granger. Exactly?"

"I don't believe," she says slowly, as if pondering over it and then presenting him a gift, of sorts. "I don't believe he thinks you mean it, this thing at your house. I really don't."

"Of course I mean it," Draco replied promptly. For fuck's sake, he'd meant it! He'd certainly agonized over it enough, hadn't he? How to ask—and when—and what might Potter reply?

No. He'd meant it. Of course he had, and even a fool could see he was sincere—

"He's…well, he's…Harry's_ not_." Granger, who possesses more words than even Draco fumbles to a flustered stop.

"He's not…what?" It's all Draco has in him: to be gentle, to be patient. But he needs to know. It's coming, Christmas. And they cannot be apart, he and Potter. They cannot be apart. "Granger, if you know, if you've the slightest inkling, talk to me. Talk to me."


	33. Chapter 33

Pansy Parkinson, for all she was a spoilt Slytherin princess who'd stepped fair and square into a pile of it and then 'repented' publically later—she was still one very tough nut.

Harry could only watch bemusedly as she emptied the post-luncheon crowd from the first floor boy's lav with a speaking glance round the room and a flip of her manicured hand.

"Get out, you lot. I need a private word with Potter." She smiled, and it was terribly charming. "_Please_."

There was a bit of a generalized gasp, a bit of a half-strangled outcry, but at Harry's startled nod, the other blokes fled like lambs from slaughter—all excepting Creevey the Younger, Dennis, whom Parkinson snagged with a long sultry stare in passing and a startlingly polite request he guard the door.

He must've—no one disturbed them.

"Well." Harry finished up wiping his hands off on a magically warmed towel and regarded her levelly. "A word, is it? This is…a surprise? Or is—"

"Don't be coy, Potter," Pansy replied coolly enough, sauntering over to lean a skirted hip against one of the sinks. They'd made their peace, of sorts, ages before, and Harry, when he remembered to, sometimes watched her from a little distance, to see how she went on. Parkinson was tough, indeed, and full of brass bollocks. She'd made a place again in Slytherin, and in Hogwarts too, and this time round it wasn't as the right-hand girl of a bullying Prince, it was in the guise of a smart, capable young woman, determined to achieve her NEWTS and dazzle the Governors with her talent and promise. "You should have known this was coming. Expected it."

There was only the one catch: Pansy was one of the walking wounded. Just as Ron was; just as so very many of them were, especially the Uppers. It was only that she kept her grief to herself, with one singular exception: Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, whom Harry had happened to be shagging.

It was passing strange and had been, all these months, learning of the 'real' Pansy Parkinson lurking beneath her hardboiled front, and pretty much solely through the filter of Malfoy's occasional outbursts and sighing snippets. Harry had supposed Malfoy only spoke of her to him at all because he knew Harry _wouldn't_, that he'd keep mum and not chat or gossip, or leave the poor girl open to the darts and arrows of others. Younger ones, mainly, they would be. The First and Second and Third Years, none of whom really knew their arses from pumpkin patches when it drilled down to how they'd all rubbed along, his classmates and he, and then his classmates together, one little lot caught in a massive cross-fire. No, the younger ones would never really understand what exactly had gone in Harry's year, in Harry's cohort.

The 'They', in general, had never really twigged on all of it anyway, that particular dynamic—not anyone from Outside had, not even their own Professors. Not even Ginny, as involved as she'd been. Not then and not now.

But still. Harry wasn't about to stand about and let Parkinson pull her old tricks on him either, close mate of Malfoy's or no, needy heart-sore bint in secret or not. He raised an eyebrow, as smoothly arch as any returning Eighth Year Slytherin. Malfoy himself, perhaps, or Zabini.

"Coy?"

"You're breaking his heart, you know," Pansy responded baldly, her frown a furiously exacting thing, demanding of action. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Potter."

"Pard—"

"Yes, you _are_," the girl insisted and pushed off the sink with a flash of fire in her eyes as Harry's other eyebrow soared to join its fellow. "He's sick with it, half-gutted over you, and you've got to be bloody heartless yourself not to see it, see how he's suffering." She jabbed a finger in his direction, scowling. "You need to stop. Stop this, once and for all. Before he does himself damage. Because I can tell you right now he _will_ do."

"You!" Harry was astounded to hear it, and entirely annoyed. "You're joking!"

"Hah-hah, Potter. Very funny." She furrowed her pretty forehead right back at him, eyes gleaming. "Right, I'm here to joke with you over how my best mate's gone to pieces. Logical, that. Exactly what you'd expect of _me_, isn't it, Mr Saviour? And so terribly clever, aren't we? Such a good prognosticator of people's feelings, are we, you who was raised in a bloody cupboard, under the stairs?"

"Hey!"

Pansy laughed at Harry's outraged face, a scoff of a mocking giggle, dry and high. It went perfectly well with the disbelieving sneer she wore and Harry, again, was reminded sharply of how bloody bold she was, how fearless—and of what she would dare do to save her particular friends in the face of most anything.

"_Not_."

"Oi! _Look_."

Right, then. Maybe Harry was peculiar in his thinking, maybe he was a bit skewed of view—all those years in that bloody cabinet, just like Parkinson pointed out—but he could sort through what must've been her reasoning, could even mostly understand it. The good of the many, wasn't it? How different was that from what _he'd_ done, yeah? Sacrifice one and let the majority live, right? Still—this wasn't _on_. He wasn't about to take this girl's wrongheaded accusations as any kind of gospel. And fuck that wanker Malfoy, sending a girl trailing after him!

"I—I can't believe you, coming out with that! You're fucking _mental_."

"Mental, am I?" The 'girl' tutted at him, actually tutted; it was eerily similar to Hermione's all too familiar 'tsk'ing. "Now come on, Potter, don't be this ridiculous if you don't need. Man up. What are you planning to actually _do_ about this situation? It can't go on, not like this."

It was infuriating, how assured she was, and it duly infuriated Harry. The very last thing he needed was to be chased down in the lavatory and confronted by some chit who only wanted to inform him of what his 'real' feelings were, as if he were bloody clueless. And this guff? Was crap, completely.

"No! You must be! You can't possibly actually _believe_—he? No. _No_."

Harry caught his breath; Parkinson didn't bother to protest, she didn't exert herself to say another word but the accusing glare never wavered, the slim pale finger was pointed true as any wand. And those eyes—those eyes were dead, stone-cold serious.

"You…you _are _joking, aren't you?" he faltered. "This_ is_ you, pulling my chain. Isn't it?"

"No." Pansy sighed heavily and lowered her arm. "Oh, bleeding Salazar's skivvies, Potter. I knew it would be something like this. Bloody idiots."

"…What?"

"I said 'no', Potter. I. Am. Not. Joking."

He could give her the benefit of a doubt, but barely. "Um…no?"

She looked at him, a long once-over, up and down, a clinical taking in of all the signs of the changes Harry generally disguised with circumspectly researched localized Notice-Me-Nots and careful tailoring Charms.

"No, of course not, Potter. Why would I? D'you seriously _think_ I even _want_ to be here, doing the asking? Seriously?"


	34. Chapter 34

Draco sits at supper and artistically arranges his mashed and sausage into little mountains and valleys. His plate is of supreme indifference to him; he's not hungry. No—he's fed up, actually.

It isn't any good to him, what more he's learnt of Potter. Granger had seemed so sure of herself, so _certain_, but she was fundamentally off her nut if she believed it would matter, a jot of it.

He'd known a fair bit, anyway. So what? Potter knew about him, too, and what difference had that made, the knowledge? It wasn't changing things, all this ancient history; it wasn't fixing things—it never had.

Shagging, bodies in motion, heat and warmth, sex and delicious secrecy—and _his_. All his and Potter's, too, what _they_ did. _That_ was what mattered, what was important still. More than. It wasn't some ancient history lesson of abject deprivation and it wasn't maundering over shit gone by and having a mass pity party to rue and repent it. No, that had _never _been what Potter had wanted of Draco and it had _never_ been what Draco desired of Potter.

And all the well-meaning interference in the world was only that:_ interfering_.

A small river of gravy is trained meticulously to trickle through the snowy humps; boiled peas are dotted about for the bushes. His dinner begins to resemble the terrain about their school but it's not as absorbing as it seems, topography and Draco's apparent abstraction over it. No.

It's a bit…it's a bit disappointing, really. Really, it is. For a second there—just a snatch of a moment—he'd thought she'd something going on, some hook he could use. An _in_ with Potter.

But she didn't—Granger. Maybe the old Potter had been that way, or maybe it was only she'd perceived him in that light. But Potter, he was no one's fool. And he wasn't a wanker so much into his own self he couldn't see the light for the shit up his own arsehole.

No, he was angry, was what. Furious and cold with it, and he'd sorted out somehow the best revenge was a strategic withdrawal. In some way or another, Potter had _known_. Exactly what he was about, all this time.

That…that if he went away, he'd effectively leave Draco floundering. Even if they were still in bed together. No, _especially_ as they were still shagging. Had to shag—were _Required_.

Hours later, his supper sitting dull and heavy in his stomach, Draco shook his head impatiently at a nearby cobweb, renting it clean through with his wand tip, and carried on with his rounds at a fast clip, working up a fine sweat as he went. He'd acres to cover and it was all too early yet. And…and at the end of the night there'd be the bed, up the tower, and Potter, waiting. And Potter would wait—he must, didn't he? Requirement, again.

Bloody Requirement.

_No_. It was just…it was only. It was only they were caught square in bad place at the moment, that was it. And it was of no help at all to know _he _was the one who'd put them there.


	35. Chapter 35

"No, sorry." Harry's eyes narrowed assessingly as he folded his arms across the rising swell of his stomach. "I'm not quite buying it, Parkinson. Malfoy's not exactly a bloke who pines away—far from it. Not in my experience, at least."

"Potter, I'm hardly here to lie to you about what I've witnessed with my own eyes, am I?" Parkinson was just as impatient, and just as obviously hanging onto her temper by its shredding coattails. "I'm here to do something positive about it, which is more than I've seen either of you chaps do, these last two months. Huh! First you cut him off, then you jerk him about, playing some deep game with him. You've got him by the bollocks no matter what you do to him, but it hardly makes it fair to outright play with—"

"Hold up there, hang _on_. Where _is_ it you get off, talking 'fair'? And we are not 'playing', Parkinson," Harry snorted, lips tightening. "Far from it. You don't dare 'play' about," he mimicked nastily, lifting his hands to curl his fingers into small cruel quote signals and wrinkling his nose at her insolence, "when you are responsible for a child. We are simply—"

"Potter?" Parkinson darted forward, suddenly, laying the flat of a small palm upon Harry's outward-pushing naval, barely discernible beneath the thickness of his school vest. "Potter, tell me—do you love this? What it is you've in you, do you love it?"

Harry fell back a pace instinctively, cupping both hands across his stretched abdomen. "Don't touch!" he snarled, scowling. "And again—where _do _you get off, asking me that?"

"Sorry." Pansy's hand fell slowly away as she backed off, eyes widening. "Sorry, Potter, but?"

"Yes?" It was all Harry could do not to reach for his wand, but he didn't. He drew himself up as tall as he could instead and glared at her, anger crackling through his robes and hair in visible little sparks of blue-orange. "But what, Parkinson? You're wasting both our times, coming here. Say what you have to say if it's so important to you and then let me alone, will you?"

"You?" she said, blinking at him carefully, her pupils contracting. "You're not the same Potter, are you?"

Harry blinked in return. "Excuse me?"

"You're not the same one, the same Potter. You're not that hero fellow any longer; you're not the little poster boy Gryffindor at all, are you," she went on flatly, nasally, her voice bottoming out to a husky growl; it was not a question at all, but a statement. "No wonder, then. I—sorry, Potter. I didn't realize it." She swallowed, bobbing her sharp little chin at him in acquiescence. "I'll just go along, then. Never mind."

"What are you on about now, Parkinson?" Harry cocked his chin. "I'm pretty much as I ever was, thanks," he continued acidly, with a spare pat to his undeniable belly, "with the marked exception of this. What precisely _were_ you expecting, anyway? A cape, card tricks, some sleight-of-hand—red-and-gold glitter?"

"No, no, that's not it." Parkinson was retreating, step by slow step, and shaking her head, obviously over the state of _him_. "No, it's—I had thought you came through it, same as ever. Obviously you've not—again, my mistake. I'll leave you to it."

"No!" It was too much to bear; Harry lurched forward, a hand reached out to stay her. He caught at her forearm. "Not so fast, Parkinson." A careful examination of her features as she stilled, pausing under his careful grip, gave him very little to go on. Where a moment or two before she'd been all fire and conviction, now she was perfectly bland and completely withdrawn, the perfect picture of a polite young lady. "Right, it's like that, is it? You've just said enough to make me wonder, haven't you? I bet you did it deliberately, too. Bait and switch, right? Well, fuck that, Parkinson. Fuck that for a lark. What goes on between me and Malfoy is nobody's business but ours, cheers, and I'll thank you to stay out of it."

"Potter—"

"No! No, your turn to shut it and listen, Parkinson," Harry growled. "You see, I think I've been remarkably calm about this." His hand was once again draped over the hump his altered robes and little Charms generally disguised so well. "But that doesn't mean I'm bloody thrilled over it, either. And you telling me your mate's shattered over the situation doesn't help. Of course he's shattered—it makes him no less culpable and he knows it, doesn't he? He set me up, Parkinson, and it makes not a sodding bit of difference I'd already been screwed over by our own alma mater, either." Harry flung up an angry hand, watched it fist mid-air. "Fact remains, he did do. And it was never because he was bloody anything other than being a stupidly jealous twat. I'd've been a little jealous, too, I imagine, if I thought he was cheating on me; if I'd been in his fancy shiny shoes. Merlin, no one likes to be slapped in the face by it, do they? But it's no excuse. That does not mean I'd deliberately entrap a bloke, Parkinson, and jerk him around forever fucking after."

"He's impulsive, Draco is—"

"Again," Harry bore down upon her, though he let her arm go ever so carefully. "Not important. Not to the point. It was all deliberate, Parkinson, what he did to me and there's not a lot I can think will make up for it. Impulsive or no, Malfoy's gone and ruined the one thing we'd going for us—the fun of it. He's killed it dead, Park—"

"He wanted you, Potter. He can't help that he did," Pansy shot back, teeth snapping. "I don't know why, but he did. So he—"

"Took me, Parkinson." Harry tilted his head enquiringly. "Tell me, if Prickwad or whatever his name is, if he went that one step further, if he gave up on the awful poetry and backed you into a corner and raped you, would it make it all the better for you, that he wanted it? Would you be willing to allow bygones be bygones, because it was something in the air, some bug up his arse that compelled him do it—he'd no control over his own life? Would it? Because bugger that, all right? Fine, he's what he is and I know it, too. He's a sodding nutter over detail, everything has to be just so, always, and he's freaking insane over what he thinks is his and what isn't, yeah? I know that—don't think I don't. But that doesn't excuse wha—"

"Potter. Potter!" Parkinson stamps her one foot at him, delicate nostrils flaring. Her unfortunate nose is till unfortunate, but she's fanciable enough despite it. The icky thought of the offensive Prickwad mooning over her passes quick as a flash through Harry's stunned brain. "Potter, you have to—you _must_—give him a chance. You owe it him, you bloody obstinate arsehole. N-no! You owe _that_."

The hand was back on his belly, gentle and cool, the undeniable 'that', and Pansy's eyes sparkled up at him, challenging through a sheen. And the gloss was tears, gathering, and not any fine Pureblood princess temper making them wet, either.

"I know it's not—I see it, alright, Potter? I _hear_ you. Loud and clear." Her inhale was a stifled sob and Harry went stock-still and made no move to duck away from the touch this time. "_I _know, all too well, what people do, and how stupid they are to do it, and that it's bloody inexcusable at times—that you can hate them, Potter, utterly despise them with all your whole heart after, but that it still hurts, okay? I _know_, just as you do. But it's right there—"

The fingers splayed carefully, as if Parkinson had discovered something precious between them, these two disparate people, something they both might very well care for.

"Right here. And you've been given it, both of you, no matter how it happened. Have a little mercy, will you? If nothing else. For this one."

"I—I can't—" Harry shuddered under the impossible weight of that small girlish hand patting him so familiarly, as she'd the right to take liberties. He blinked hard, his specs a little steamy, though the lav was cool and dry and had been. His voice cracked, despite his best efforts. "You don't—you can't possibly—"

"No," Parkinson replied softly, and really, there she was in all her hidden glory, Draco Malfoy's Pansy, and Harry could understand why it was, just a bit, Malfoy bothered himself endlessly. "_I _don't_. I_ can't and Merlin save me if I ever must, if ever it should happen to _me_. I know I shan't ever manage as well as you do, Potter—that's what heroes are for, isn't it?"

A tiny laugh burst out of her lips, just short of hysterical, but not mocking—never mocking.

"To manage, and to carry on, and to make the best of a bad show. He's a bad show, Potter, Draco is. He's a selfish twat and he's an arse sometimes and you never quite know where you are with him, but he's not _so_bad, either. Give him a chance, Potter. Really look at him and then maybe you'll see he deserves one. More than one, really. He's a little slow on the uptake sometimes, see?"

She swallowed and bit down two front teeth on a pair of twitchy lips, ones that were quirking wryly despite the tiny tell-tale quiver, lowered her stubborn chin, eyes cast down and at last stepped back that one final time, leaving Harry free of her. And swaying.

"Parkinson." Harry found his feet and practiced staying upright on them; he was surprised to not be bowled over, after all that. And his ears were ringing, actually ringing, as if something had cracked deep in his head. "Parkinson."

He had not the foggiest idea of what to say to her, this girl.

But she did. She glanced up quickly enough and bloody well winked at him, impudent, a saucy curve struggling to build across lips painted scarlet as any Gryffindor's ruddy House badge.

"No. Look, maybe he doesn't even deserve the one, all right? But he needs it of you, all the same. It's Christmas coming, Potter. You can manage this one more littlest thing, hero boy. I just know it."


	36. Chapter 36

He uses his lips to tack Potter down against the wrinkled duvet. Kiss a shoulder blade, kiss a thigh—kiss that belly, his primary claim on Potter now he's gone and cocked it over. Kiss an ankle when it flies up. Muscle up, hustle in. Invade that mouth, that sweet hot mouth, and mull over what Potter's been eating last and whether he downed his potion late or early.

He can always tell, by the taste, but tonight it's doubly important that he savours it. Too much talk and too many wild tangents and this_ is_ a bloody cabinet that will never, ever be rebuilt to what it was once; this he knows. He's got pieces, though, and the general structure, and if he just buries himself in deep enough, maybe it'll right itself, come morning. Come _sometime_.

He's knackered. Such a long day, with triple the hours packed in, or it felt like, and this is pretty much the first he's seen of Potter all through, to touch. He's about parched, gagging for it. His bloody palms are begging, or it feels like—he rubs them everywhere, and all his fingers, too.

Everything, all the skin he's got to give, and all the skin of Harry, salty-damp and writhing under. It's enough to madden a man, and Draco's more than willing to be a little mad.

Gluey, oozy; that what Draco feels, sinking into Potter's arse. A little light-headed and lacking air, a little glorious, excepting the tears and shreds and tatters all along his flanks but those are normal. They're what happens, day in and day out. It's not much lark, sending two unfortunately discovered randy Fourths off to immediate interim detention with Prickwad; it's a drag to sentence a bleary-eyed Firstie Huffle who must've been sleepwalking to be where he was at that time of night to a session of cauldron-scrubbing. The man's a menace and should be shut down, for the good of Slytherin. Draco's not liking one bit the way he eyes Pansy over when he thinks no one's looking and old Slug'll do nothing about it, Draco's sure.

When Christmas is over with and they're back again at Hogwarts he'll need do something about it. Old McGonagall does have her uses—he'll grant her that.

He's glad she's going home for hols, Pansy, and that _he_ is. He's…he's been on tenterhooks lately and then been thrown arse-over-teakettle that Potter's agreed to come at all, all in all just left rolling with the punches, really. Not that he had a choice, Harry. Not that Draco did either, but at least he'd said 'yes', Potter. Said it aloud, too. At least there'd been a_ yes_, involved somewhere.

His pulse pounds with it, the tacit and explicit permission. Maybe the 'yes' was a crack in the armour-plate, maybe it was a harbinger of armistice. Maybe. He's not counting on it but it's there, all the same. He'll make the most of it, if he can, when he can, when they're safely home again, back on _his_ territory.

Potter will like it, Malfoy, and the wide open fields drawing down to the waters. Draco's pretty certain. He'll like the brambles of the forest edge and the conservatory alight at night with gaslight sconces and the balcony walk in the snow and Draco's Mum's extra-special teas with the cream horns and the hothouse strawberries. He'll like the garlands, bough after bough plaited with silvery ribbons, breathing out pine to the banked down fires, and the clove-studded oranges in ceramic pots, boiling and bubbling citrus and the scent of ancient Persian cities all the short days long, and he'll specially enjoy the extensive collection of Quidditch memorabilia Draco's got in his study. He'll like _those_, at least. The Quidditch.

Draco's pretty sure.

And he's buried down, drilling down, in and out with a smooth steady motion; he can do this all night and he will. It's the grace by which he's warm again and _fuck_, but those old Hogwarts halls are chilly as a Muggle biddy's left-hind teat late at night—and Potter's hot against him at every point and holding on to Draco's back for all he's worth, two whole hands worth of fingers digging deep into Draco's arching vertebrae as if he'll never let go.

Yeah. If he thinks about it ever so much; if he really, really concentrates on the seperate clues striking his hungry senses, he can nearly taste the smell of all that's best of Malfoy skating across the surface of Potter's sweat-streaked skin where he licks it: lemons and oranges, bramble-rose and the crisp cool scent of Wiltshire snow, falling. _He's_ in Potter, he's so much _in_.

Moss and verbena, briny salt enough to choke a man and delight a ponce, and the rich gush of old blood racing through the courses and then, too, a hint of waxy virgin honeycomb from the Home Farm, bottled golden. All there, sweat, spit, and tears, his seed and his history, Draco's, and rising off Harry like a smoking sigil, the Malfoy brand.

Potion, potion. Draco moans and lifts his lips from potioned skin for the barest moment, but reluctantly.

"It's—it's good, yeah?"

Potter grunts and shoves up to meet him, eyes barely open, only a green glass gleam in the lamplight. Draco had wanted the illumination, had simply spelled on the smaller lamps and silently dared Potter to say something, but he hadn't. He'd let it be and now Draco can clearly see who he's fucking. Potter, naturally, but more than.

It's_ his_. It's what he's made of it, and he cannot truly say he's sorry, though of course he is. Of course he is. He just can't imagine how it may've been different, otherwise. Potter would've let go at some time in the future, maybe sooner, soon as that fuckwad MacMillan shagged him, or tried to, or maybe as late as matriculation, but he would've gone…and taken that fine arse and that pretty prick of his with him.

That wasn't on. Malfoys kept what they took.

At least Draco's got this, smelting hot, right this moment. All he wants and as much they both can handle, and it's all for the good of that life they've made between them. It's fucking been _prescribed_, sod it….Hasn't it now? And then he'll have that life, too, or a good part in it, after, twined into his and ongoing. A little one, an heir. And that's something like, that's excellent. Isn't it? Mum says it is, and fondly.

Draco, for himself? He'd never much hoped for it, this sort of life…so domestic, so settled. But if he had? If he _had _hoped, it would've been for this sensation, exactly. _This_. What began it.

All day long he's been longing. All the day long it's been there, a goad, a wish, a gut-twisting 'I want that!' And he's got it. He's got it now, fucking bless Potter for _not _being an arsehole and hiding out in his dorm as Draco had feared he might, just for spite. No, nothing like that. Draco needn't have fretted for a moment. Potter's as fully aware as he is they need this, the connection. Need is one thing, though, and desire is wholly another; he'd not expected to be met with such enthusiasm!

Draco feels a bit like laughing over it, but he won't take his lips from Potter's skin to let loose. No—he'd adore to laugh, as this is amazing, and brilliant, and fantastic—precisely what's needed most, this minute.

Silly old arse…and wasn't that ever so much the old Potty, the casual, careless twat who'd called it all _fun_, once last summer. 'Fun', what they got up to, like it was a prank they were pulling on the universe or something ridiculously along those lines, but it was never only the fun, not a bit of it—Draco never thought so. Potter could be so fucking fuzzy in his articulation, or maybe it was being deliberately vague, the sly boots; who knew? Draco didn't, couldn't be bothered to poke at it too hard or too often for it to be an issue, what Potter called them in his head. Hadn't mattered much, then—didn't matter now.

Thing was, _he_ wouldn't ever say it was 'fun', whatever the addled Gryff riding his cock claimed contrary-wise. Such a small, small word; it barely held an _nth_ of the breadth of it. 'Fun'—hah! Preposterous!

But,_ no_. Stupid old Hogwarts had it right from the get-go. It was about burying himself into Harry and breathing, it was centred about Harry's hands, holding on. There was simply no word to encompass that feeling, not as it filled all Draco's lacks and his gaps and soothed his tiny bruises. Not as the wave of it buoyed him up and sent him flying high, well above it all and lordly, looking down—falling down—

Spiraling down, freefall and—by miles!

No! Incredible! Gasping, firmly grounded and brilliantly alive to the damp silk feel of Harry's hair spilling back over his own taut forearm as he hauls Harry's body up and on, settling that beguiling arse across his thighs so he can push his spurting prick deeper, go harder at it. Small sounds, wordless noises coming sweet from that vulnerable throat, and those dark lashes laying thicket-deep on cheeks bluish-purpled by exhaustion, barely moving, languid—god, yes, that, and then those nipples, pink, distended and a little swollen by what's growing and thriving daily inside—his. His. Please, never anyone else's but his?

And Draco's ever so careful, even now, sunk so deep in in Harry, drenched in spunk and sweat and shared _wet_. He's full of care, rather, to put a fine line on it. Harry's full of _his_ care, even, though the prat doesn't know it—doesn't care to know it.

Draco can't stop to be sure Harry realizes what words won't say, what only action speaks, much as he'd like it. He's not clear on how he'd even _know_, not at this point. Potter's different. Draco's changed him. What might be the signs of this sort of Harry Potter, knowing? A lack of the pigheaded denial, the _not_—or is it those brilliantly green eyes opening wide and aware, after? Slick skin that doesn't flinch with only lust but instead sighs into Draco's mouth and arms in sensuous welcome? That'd be the day, wouldn't it?

Gods, but he's totally fucking knackered, Draco knows he is, and stupidly fanciful with it, building stupid dreams up of the quicksand of what's probably sex only—with a higher purpose, yes, but…sex. Fucking, raw and rude.

No matter, he'll make do. He'll make do, as he can't not.

What he's got for real is a weary Potter, slumped against him and panting harshly, winded, bum all drippy as Draco's cock slips out and then, too, the alien feel of Potter's distended naval, poking Draco's thigh at an odd angle. It's the way in which they lay against one another, two bodies jumbled into a tangled heap even though barely still upright. It looks strange to Draco's eyes when he glances down between their naked chests: the full and the lean, complimentary and opposing. It's old Jack Sprat and his portly mate: a tiny fleeting fancy in Draco's brilliantly empty shagged-out brain—odd and a bit funny, but a sumptuous view all the same, how it is they stick together and how the baby's curve outwards matches up to his own mannish juts and hollows, the fit of it. Satisfying, that, as much as was the coming itself. Draco craves more of it, this meet of flesh, this gooey, gluey sticking. Once isn't going to be enough—he knew that coming through the door earlier, didn't he?

Is _never_ enough.

And he'd truly wanted to see it all happen for bloody once, to see the act bright and undeniable in the light, and have Potter see it too, sod the absent little bastard. He's here this time, though; yes he is! Draco's pretty certain.

"Another?"

At Potter's faint nod, jerky and immediate, Draco's able to inhale again, Potter hair up his nostrils or no, tickling. His cock's already filling, his blood's on fucking fire. And?

Maybe—just...maybe?

"Lay back, then," is what he demands of Potter, gruffly enough, but everything about him is characterized by care.


	37. Chapter 37

"Harry, welcome." A poised Narcissa Malfoy smiled down at them from her place at the head of the grand marble steps leading up to her vast portico. "Draco, darling, do bring Harry in from the cold. A comfortable journey, I hope?"

It had been, and Harry was woefully unsurprised. He couldn't imagine the Malfoys travelling in anything less than maximum luxury and ease. First one of the school's Thestral-drawn carriages had driven them straight to the Hogwarts Express platform and they'd been popped bung into an empty compartment, then all the pumpkin pasties he could eat if he'd been at all peckish had been pressed upon him, then they were barreling off to King's Cross, a sleepy sequence marked by intermittent dozing and the view of Malfoy seated calmly opposite, swinging one crossed leg and scribbling away at notes and revising materials. Thence they were ushered to what Malfoy referred sedately as the 'Home Line', which appeared to be a quite similar train as the Express. Smaller engine, though, and if possible even more old-fashioned, and the carriages for that leg were achieved via Platform 2 5/8ths. The train itself was apparently owned at least in part by the Malfoys, as he'd been bowed into a huge private compartment by a white-gloved attendant wearing livery, and that capacious space complete with swish private dining table and quite elegant seating and all of it awash in acres of velvet. Red and gold velvet, too, which made his lips twitch uncontrollably. Gods, but the drapery tasselling alone! And then the swags and the smug carved cherubs lurking in the cornices and along the wainscoting, as if a Victorian-era genie had come along and vomitted up the furnishings! Harry quite thought there must've been an avid fancier of railroading in the Malfoy family once, decades ago—mayhap a century—to go that far over the top.

Nothing less than he'd expect, really. Malfoys were...intense, that was the word for them. One word for them. And the latest Malfoy sprat seemed to take it all for granted.

Yes, comfortable, Harry's journey. But…fraught, all the same. They'd barely spoken, excepting commonplaces over tea and some rather munificent roast beef sandwiches.

Harry hadn't been quite prepared for it, really. Any of it.

"Of course you, Harry, cannot Floo or Apparate, and broom journeys for that distance in this weather are not at all wise, " Headmistress had informed them summarily a week prior, having called them both to her office for a sudden tea-and-scheduling sortie. Headmistress McGonagall wasn't someone who tolerated loose ends, no, and they were on her agenda for the day, it seemed: one Malfoy and one Potter, to be tidied. "Accordingly, for your physical safety and the child's, we will be extending you two days extra leave, at either end of the regular holidays, set aside for a more conventional form of travel so as to avoid the crush of our other students departing. Mr Malfoy here will accompany you, naturally."

She had paused and affixed Harry with a very speaking look, one that dared him to make a fuss.

"If that is agreeable, of course?"

Harry had nodded, knowing he was under the steady gaze of Malfoy the entire time. He shivered reflexively, and couldn't help but be a little glad it was to a quiet affair, his visiting the Manor.

It was never mentioned it would also avoid the possibility of public comment, this bolting off a day ahead of all the rest, but Harry let that one strictly alone. It suited him and, from the way the taut lines of Malfoy's face eased briefly as McGonagall explained, it suited the ravaging twat as well.

...Speaking of 'ravaging twats'!

Merlin, but they were lurking there in the middle distance, the press, just awaiting a scoop. They both knew it, he and Malfoy, but they never mentioned it, not privately.

"Good, yes. Thank you." Malfoy actually smiled at McGonagall, in fact, and Harry smirked a little to himself—just before grabbing his expanding middle and grimacing horribly. It wasn't the old nausea that had plagued him earlier, though; it was the feeling of inhabiting a physical body which had been very well used and that quite recently!

_Oi_, but it wasn't as if Harry ever believed his poor body would get off scott-free! Not after the force majeure that was Draco Malfoy, driven. The hungry tosser. Harry quite felt as if he'd been devoured alive the night before and had only barely lived to tell the tale of it, come morning.

Except—not to McGonagall, obviously. Not tales to be told and no complaints, either. Or anyone else, ever—cheers.

He blushed beet-red under Malfoy's sudden sideways glance, so knowing, and took to studying his hands folded demurely upon his lap, purely out of self-defense. The last thing he wished for was to have the prat start carrying on over his 'condition' to McGonagall, currying favour by expressing his 'great concern'!

…Not that Malfoy wasn't concerned, because he was, clearly, but he didn't need speak of it either. Not to Harry's way of thinking. At this point, least said, soonest mended. They'd get it over with, muddle through it, and then Harry could quietly seek out a way of spending as little time with Malfoy as possible in the future.

"I do trust your regular assignments will be submitted as expected beforehand and, Mr Malfoy?" Headmistress subjected Draco to a carefully measured stare, as if she expected to hear excuses immediately. He bridled under it, his chin rising, but only tightened already bloodless lips at her. "And…you will choose and assign a substitute for your days of missed rounds? It would not do to allow the students free rein of the halls the night before a holiday—or the day after."

"Yes, of course," Malfoy replied politely, and Harry could care less about all these details. "I'll make sure to arrange for all eventualities, Headmistress."

Harry muffled a moan and attempted to resettle his bum comfortably upon the hard seat of the chair Headmistress had given him. He'd been a bit desperate, last night, and the wood wasn't kind to his bum, not at all, not with his hip joints twingeing and that feeling of fullness, ghostly and lingering between his buttocks. Malfoys did leave a lasting impression, didn't they. The buggers.

He sighed, hangdog and loudly, glancing over at the other two, to check if they'd noticed. If he could just be allowed to go…? But no. Malfoy leant closer in a flash; had a quick hand clamped down on Harry's one wrist, keeping him still. "I will be sure to," the git added, as if Harry hadn't obviously considered legging it altogether and leaving them to it, organizing his life.

"Don't rush off, Potter," he hissed for Harry's ears alone. "Be still. You don't want to strain yourself."

"Of course not!" Harry growled in response, but quietly, and shifted under the curl of cool fingertips digging into his skin, trying as a distraction to think over what he'd need pack up for a week spent at a bloody la-di-dah Manor house in the depths of the country in bloody mid-winter. All his Weasley jerseys, definitely. Especially the loudest of the orangey-red ones. And the ones with frayed sleeves, yes. Those, too.

His broom, not that he'd be allowed on it. Or anywhere near it, not with his luck. He was surprised Pomfrey hadn't confiscated the thing, actually. 'Course, if he managed to swing a leg over his broom, likely it would go out from under him and skitter away, leery of his padding. And his arse—his poor abused arse wouldn't take it. Er...abused? Maybe. Unsatisfied? _No_.

No—it was more _they_ had been a bit desperate, both of them. Gasping for relief and hormone-based oblivion, and intent on getting it on as soon as they could possibly.

_He'd_ wanted nothing more than to be brought off, last night, and he'd been. Was like Malfoy had been bent on a personal-best mission to make it happen, over and over. As if he, too, had been rocked on his pins and needed the solace of a simple, uncomplicated shag to get over the experience. How Harry did so hate being cornered! And especially by girls on missions!

Right, _no_. Harry scolded himself. He should forget all about what Parkinson had said to him and calmly consider the next thing on his plate; that was what? Oh, yes. Packing kit. For a week. With a posh git and his posher Mummy, was it?

Right, then. His best robes, he'd bring them along, though they were a bit too tight, nowadays. Not that it would matter in the least what he wore to dinner or didn't. He was hardly seeking to impress. But it was polite to attempt, at least, and Narcissa Malfoy had arranged for the Healer as well as the steady stream of infant items Madame Pomfrey insisted on parading before Harry's horrified eyes every fortnight, all of them flowing after into a spare room in the Infirmary for storage. As Harry wouldn't tolerate a single solitary one of them, not a bootie, not a rattle, not within twenty yards of his person. Yes, but, all the best, still; everything always all the best.

He rocked on an achy bottom; it was difficult to be still and quiet. Malfoy had been in him twice and wrung three good hard ejaculations from him whilst doing him with a vengeance; he was still parched from the experience. One rushed cuppa hadn't been nearly enough to soothe Harry's throat and he was bloody ravenous—stomach threatening to consume his liver.

And MacGonagall and the git were still at it, chatting away about that Prickwell arse and Malfoy's concerns over Parkinson.

Harry tuned it out, though he did spare a tiny bit of admiration to Malfoy, for coming right out with it and confronting McGonagall face-to-face. Prickwell was an intensely creepy sort and everyone had noticed it. Bit hard not to, what? And Malfoy was correct: the freak should be let go, for the safety of the students. Parkinson, specially.

Right-oh, then.

Yes, and he'd need a few of his books, for review. Potions, for one, as Slug's latest long-term assignment was a hellion and he persisted in viewing Harry as a savant, the silly old duffer. Then…spare parchment, quills—some references lifted from Restricted. Oh, er. There was that infamous Malfoy Library where he was headed, wasn't there? Well, maybe there'd be—

"Potter, _psst_!" Malfoy fidgeted beside him, his fingertips trembling almost imperceptibly. "You all right? Holding up?"

Harry ducked his chin irritably, gracing him with a little glare for even asking. He? _He_ was fine, considering. But Malfoy looked pretty much horrible in the clear morning light pouring through the high-arched office windows. Harry wasn't convinced he'd slept at all, stupid tosser. Been quiet enough about it, yes, but it was difficult to ignore a wide-awake presence pressed up against one's side and pawing at him here and there, not for all those hours on end like that.

Not when he bore so many fresh marks of what burnt between them, unflagging.

"Oh. Hmm. Tea, lads? Food?" McGonagall offered at last, and Harry practically fell upon her neck with an excess of gratitude.

"Yes, thank you," Mafly replied sedately. "Much appreciated, Headmistress."

"Please!" Harry burst out and nearly lunged out of his seat to grapple the tray when it appeared, crockery still rattling faintly and cheery with the aroma of bacon butties, current scones and fresh tea.

He'd been half afraid since waking Malfoy would follow him down to the Hall and sit with him at his House table, and gods knew, that would be horrid. He stared at her hopefully, green eyes wide. Maybe she'd offer to excuse them directly and then Harry might avoid the humiliation of having Malfoy hover over him, an unassailable presence at his side now the other students knew of their connection?

He hadn't need have worried himself over it.

_They _hadn't needed, rather. They'd been fed, plied with hot beverage and ably debriefed, sent off straight to classes, and then the next week were deposited on Malfoy Manor's doorstep, with the chatelaine smiling down at them both—and all of it happening too soon for Harry's comfort.

Really, he wasn't prepared for it, this. Nothing could ready him mentally for being welcomed so warmly into a place that smelt still of blood in his head and reeked of purest evil.

Not that it really, really did, when it came down to it. Not at all. The whole massive pile was redolent of Christmas, clean as a whistle of any reminders of Harry's previous forced incarceration, and Narcissa Malfoy was everything a proper hostess should be—and more.

Slytherin, of course. Narcissa was a Slytherin. So..there was always a 'more' or an 'except', wasn't there? Harry, wary as he was, should've guessed it instantly.

"I am thinking." She smiled at him indulgently over yet more tea, to Harry's internal consternation. "I am convinced you'll want to be situated in Draco's rooms, Harry. Far more comfortable for you there than being shut away in the guest wing by yourself." She sipped and smiled, blandly ignoring Harry's convulsive swallow.

"Ngh!"

"My dearest son here will more than pleased, I'm certain."

Narcissa suddenly grinned at Harry, a startlingly gamine expression making a fleeting appearance across the planes of that beautiful Black face for an instant, and Harry went from gulping to gasping in reaction. This was a far cry from the stark-eyed woman he recalled from that one time with Voldemort and farther still from the subdued, dry-eyed serenity of his last real sight of Draco's mother, grimly clutching the weary person of Andromeda Tonks to her bosom. "To show you about the Manor."

The blue, blue eyes staring deep into Harry's stunned green ones went just a wee bit calculating, a gleam entering them that boded no good for anyone's peace of mind, 'specially not a pregnancy-impaired rather weary ex-Hero. He instinctively tensed where he sat, blinking fast, and set down his half-emptied cup with a loud clatter.

"Ye—?"

"It's a rather lovely place, really." Narcissa ignored that breach too, and revisited the weird friendly grin she'd sported. It gave Harry the shivers, it did. He placed a hand against his belly and leant back against the squabs of his overstuffed armchair. "Your new home away from home. As it _is_, Harry, the Manor. And will be, naturally."

And Draco? Draco twitched just much as Harry had when his mother swiveled a well-shaped, perfectly coiffed head to offer up a kindly smile to him, in turn.

"Won't _you_ be glad of it, dearest? Harry should be introduced in small stages, I believe." A light laugh tinkled out of her as she gestured with her cup, ever so elegantly. "As there is so very much to it, I fear. Even_ I_ go astray at times. Hmm, darling." She hummed for a second, tapping a biscuit against the rim. "Perhaps you may begin with our latest efforts. Harry should enjoy _that_. A bit of the familiar, what we've arranged for you, Harry."

"Nnrk?"

They both jerked upright, Draco's spine nearly cracking with the force of it. Harry's lips parted but it was Draco who uttered the shocked snort.

"Very good, then." Narcissa's smile only gained more brilliance as she handily ignored that, too. She nodded decisively at them both, as if it was all settled. Apparently it was all settled, for that matter. "Well. Off you boys go, do enjoy yourselves wandering. Tweezle will be sure to call you for dinner."


	38. Chapter 38

"Right, come on."

Draco led the way to his rooms, mainly as he couldn't rightly avoid it. His Mum had neatly outflanked him and there was no help for it.

"It's a bit of hike, isn't it?" Potter muttered after the first two minutes trotting along. "No wonder you Malfoys are thin as rails. Walk a mile to breakfast every day, do you?"

A muffled laugh burst out of Draco; he couldn't stifle it. He stopped and waited for Potter to catch him up, extending a hand as the other man drew level. A quick twist of wrist and his fingers were slotting about Potter's, gripping.

"What?" he snorted, bumping up as Potter didn't instantly jerk away, though he treated Draco to a very level stare before continuing to walk on, barely pausing. Draco fell into an easy lope close beside him, as if this were perfectly natural, what they were doing, holding hands like two schoolgirls. They'd not done such a thing before, ever, at least not meaning to. He wasn't sure why he wanted it now, but he did.

And no, he'd have preferred to wait a bit on showing Potter what he'd—they'd—done up for him, but it was inevitable he'd see it, so…best to be a bit cool, right? No big deal, this.

"You can't keep up, Potter? It's only a house, you know. Like any other." That earned him a pronounced roll of eyeballs and a snort.

"The hell it is! It's more it's a ridiculous pile of—oh, er!"

Potter's cheeks went a bit pink. His manners—ah? Draco had been fairly sure Potter had them, somewhere tucked away, whether he choose to employ them or not. They must've caught up with him suddenly, because he gulped, and twisted his lips as if actively engaged in reshaping the words that came spilling out.

"N-Not that _your_ house, Malfoy, exactly, is ridiculous, but—"

"Yes, well…" Draco took pity and shrugged an easy shoulder, peering sideways at Potter. The Manor must be enormous in comparison to the tiny Muggle sty Potter was raised in. Nothing like on Hogwarts scale, but still—a substantial residence, right? He couldn't very well take offense if Potter was a little taken aback by the magnitude, could he? No…he couldn't. He wouldn't, either. "It is what it is. And it's not half bad, even after—even after—er!"

He zipped lip abruptly, humping the opposite shoulder in lieu of continuing down what was likely a quite brambly path, politically. Discretion and all that. He didn't like to recall any of it himself, what had gone on before. Potter wouldn't either, and it wasn't at all to the point that he should, was it? Point _was_, Potter should learn to like the Manor a little. Bring the baby here. Maybe stay.

"Ah...forget it," Draco gulped, gaze anywhere other than on Potter. "It's nothing much, really. No—no. You're probably perfectly correct. It _is_ a bit much. My house."

"...No," Potter replied, after a long moment of steady pacing, eyes travelling curiously about the details of the corridor they were traversing, flickering over the open doors of all the rooms that populated the Main House as they went. "No…it's nice, really."

That surprised another bark of a laugh from Draco. "'Nice', Potter? Really, now. Thank you."

"Welcome," Potter replied, all laconic and eyes forward, trudging along regardless. Draco merely sniffed at him in return, not meaning anything by it, and they'd fallen into a semi-companionable silence by the time they arrived at the split stairwell leading up to the next floor, where the family's private suites were mainly situated.

"This way, then. Not much farther," Draco offered up casually, and didn't leave go of Potter's hand as they began the climb. It was the way he used most often, faster by far to traverse than the main staircase, the grand one up front his parents had only ever descended to impress visitors. This back one rose up in easy landings from the rear of the main house and, if they'd gone a little farther down the corridor, past it, they'd've found themselves by the kitchens and thence to the smaller, more private rooms he and his Mum used most regularly nowadays. Morning Room, Music Room, Conservatory. "I'm only up one flight."

"Ah."

Draco became very conscious of Potter's breathing. It was a bit harsher, and his eyes were narrowed behind the reflective lenses of his specs, as if he were feeling somewhat strained. It had been a long day, really, even for Draco. Tiring, although the majority had been spent sitting. Potter might like a little lie-down before dinner in place of exploring; Draco made a mental note to ask him if he'd prefer a kip on his bed instead.

"Super." Potter nodded gamely, and slowed up even more, his other hand finding the carved banister as he went, gripping on for balance. Draco instinctively matched his steps, idling along as unobtrusively as possible as Potter took on the shallow stairs with a will and a certain iron set to his jaw. Probably if he dared slip an arm 'round Potter's back the stubborn fool would glare at him and shake him off, disdaining the boost, so he let it be, only making certain to keep their fingers entwined and go along at a snail's pace. A terribly geriatric snail, too.

All the same, he couldn't wrench his eyes off Potter's person as they went.

He so seldom really saw Potter simply to look at. In fact he couldn't think when he'd a recent opportunity to really evaluate him carefully. It was glimpses here and snatches there and not much more, and all in passing. They spent very little time together during the actual school day, no longer being automatically paired up as partners even being in the same lectures, and then with Potter not playing Quidditch nor beavering away as he had on the remaining bits of the castle that were in need of repair on the weekends there simply wasn't much chance for them to come into contact, except at a distance. And Potter still sat at Gryffindor for his meals, naturally enough, and he at Slytherin. And gods knew, they certainly weren't meeting up for a quick snog in a deserted lav or a fast wank in a closet like they been used to, either. No…they weren't.

He was…Potter was very much a changed man, no argument. Draco had certainly taken a great interest in the changes all along, but maybe he'd been a bit removed from it, concerned with the potion, or comparing the physical rate-of-maturation data to what he'd learnt of his Cousin deLisle's experience? But...it _was_ a bit shocking, how a formerly fit young man's body did what it did when landed with a great deal of very much centred and meaningful weight gain. Draco's fingertips had of course told him by night how Potter was softer, all about; how the lean vulpine lines of him had blurred as the baby grew. Part of it water and part of it blood, Healer Zook had remarked casually one day; part of it a gentle padding of fat and flesh, protective especially about the abdomen, where the child had made a space for him or herself out of Nothing and Magic, combined. No—_not _'Nothing'. Requirement.

And some of it was Draco, himself. Part of_ him_, integrating into Potter. Creating something...some_one_...special. Someone new.

New? The Manor had changed as well, and by way of his will alone. Well...theirs, as he'd his mother's help. In any event, it had a whole new place made inside it, 'specially just for Potter.

...Potter.

Draco's fingers curled convulsively as he flinched, each step seeming to weigh a little more, be a little heavier, as he and Potter went ever slower rounding the first landing. Only thirteen steps to his floor and then a very short stretch down the corridor to his doorway. It was a bit nerve-wracking, the fear of arriving, though he'd never admit it—not to Potter.

It was only...he wasn't sure if Potter would like it, what they'd done, he and his Mum together. It might be an affront and Potter's temper was already more unstable than ever; he'd be offended, wouldn't he? Or…it might simply be viewed as an intrusion, just as _he _was an intrusion in Potter's life. Well…Potter believed Draco was one, pretty clearly. Now, at least. Not always, no, but now.

Draco was still seized by a sudden impulse, impossible to deny.

"I, erm. You…ah."

He could explain it? Or, if not explain, precisely...perhaps a bit of advance warning might ease the way? Sensible—it would be sensible, especially after his own mother's machinations. To set the stage, as it were.

"There's…well."

"Yeah?" Potter panted lightly, turning his shoulders to glance over. He was breathing markedly harder, only pausing a bare instant to catch a hurried gulp of air. "Ah! _What_, Malfoy?"

"Uh..." Draco stared determinedly at the steps rising up in front of them, glacier slow but still coming. Halfway up and chugging along, they were. "I—oh, ah." He heaved a worried sigh. "Yeah, it's. It's, I've…I have something to show you, that's all. Yours. It's yours. 'Specially for your use, I mean. While you're visiting."

"Oh?"

"In my rooms," Draco said, in a rush, all at once feeling horribly tongue-tied under Potter's steady gaze. "Part of my rooms, at least. We've converted over the second study, the smaller one; I wasn't using it for anything much in particular anyway and I thought—I thought, maybe—"

"…Maybe?"

Even three-quarters turned to face Potter, gazing at him nearly full-on as they stumbled along, Draco couldn't learn anything additional from the way the man coolly returned his stare, a stray hank of ruffled hair tumbling down his forehead and obscuring half his spectacles. The eyes behind them were blanking out, emotionless and null of all expression, as was the usual these days—giving nothing away. Dead jade, them. And the lips—those quirky, expressive lips had nothing more to convey to Draco, nor did the level tone of his voice. Curious, that was all. Just curious, was Potter.

"Maybe what, Malfoy?" A little spark of something, a ghostly hope that Draco was barely even aware he'd been holding—it died out in a blink, as if it had never been. Draco scowled.

"Right. You'll see soon enough, I suppose." Put off, Draco replied sharply, shortly, mentally throwing his hands up over the whole idiot idea. Potter would either like it or hate it intensely and only Potter knew which it would be, the squirrely little prat he was. He gave the git's hand a little squeeze, to urge him on. And a yank, too, for good measure. They were almost there. "Look. No sense rushing it; it's nothing much, really, anything I've. Er. But come on along, will you? It's only just there."

"Where?"

They'd made the start of the first floor hall, which stretched on for ages, a vast carpeted vista studded with closed entries, for these were the private rooms of the family. But Draco's quarters were first along it. At the wave of his free hand a set of double doors swung open and Potter's eyebrows lofted slightly when he caught the motion of them.

"Huh," he huffed, fleeting curiousity replaced by a dubious smirk. "I see." Or perhaps it was more a breathless sneer. "All the mod cons laid on, then. Must be nice, Malfoy. To be you."

Draco gritted his teeth silently and restrained himself from growling at Potter.

"No," he replied, a wealth of learnt patience in his voice. "It's not _me_, Potter. It's the Manor. It's what it does. That's my room and it knows it, so it's helping me out, is all. It's saying its welcome to me, wanting me to come in."

"Ah." Potter blinked as they arrived. "Your doors do that?" He touched the solid frame of the gaping entry with a curious fingertip in passing as Draco practically shoved him on through. "Hmm. That's…that's nice, I guess. Muggle houses don't do that, not at all."

"Wizarding ones do, proper ones, that is," Draco replied sedately. "Ours _is_ proper, of course."

He nodded round his familiar old room, taking in the fact the elves had tidied and polished within an inch of their lives while he'd been away and all was spit-spot. Yet another tray of tea was set out on the small table before the hearth and two of his armchairs were drawn cozily up before a blazing little fire. The lavatory door stood open, giving a view of a generous tub, acres of pristine white toweling and gleaming brass fittings. And there, beyond the first closed door of the first 'study', as Draco liked to call it, or rather what was really the largish spare space in which Draco had always kept his own books and his precious Quidditch collection, was a second entry—a second 'study'. That door had been left wide open by the elves, perhaps in some sense of misguided anticipation.

Really, he wished they hadn't. He'd have liked to introduce Potter to what lay behind that second door in his own good time.

"Yes, indeed." Draco ducked his chin down, very deliberately not glancing in that direction at all. With any sort of dumb luck, Potter wouldn't spot it immediately. "Malfoy is very proper. As it should be. Er...tea?"

"Oh…" Potter, however, paid him not the slightest attention. "Oh!" They'd made their way fully inside, Potter could see anything and everything, and blast it, but there that Room was, in all its wonky glory.

"Um, how about over here, by the fire?" Draco tried, but it was fruitless. "Potter?"

Too late; Potter was clearly caught by his view into the second study. Which was no 'study' of Draco's any longer, no.

Colours practically spilt out of it, that second door; a riotous blossom of impressions blaring into the dignified setting of Draco's elegantly taupe and hunter green-hued sitting-cum-bed room. The slivers of lime green and a rich royal purple-blue mixed were a bit of visual corker, really. So was the vivid orange, blending to a blood-red tint at the edges. Black metal and glassy reflections, like mirrors—those were the various posters, framed—then the teapots, all odd and all weird, every one of them—and then the sofa, set just so in pride of place. The centerpiece, that particular divan. And remarkably familiar, too.

In lavender, a dense shade of it. Soft and inviting, with the sheets that were Draco's in particular. And tucked over in a corner, 'neath windows charmed to curve, was a Muggle music machine and a shelf of the silly vinyl discs that went with.

Potter's eyes went wide as he tugged his hand from Draco's finally and went wandering toward the study door and all it lead into, lost in an apparent daze—and perhaps some sort of shocked form of Potterish delight. He ducked his head in once—twice, then pulled back and rolled it about on the stem of his neck, eyes closed. As if he couldn't believe it, could simply not lay credence to it, and his had eyes deceived him. But was pleased, very pleased, all the same.

Draco caught his breath, holding it tight within him till his very lungs felt like bursting, and didn't even know he was doing so, not a bit of it. It was the very hardest of things to do, waiting.

But…Potter did glance back at last, chin tipped sideways as he regarded Draco's still figure, left abandoned a little way into the master bedroom. Draco straightened to his full height instantly, squaring his shoulders, and licked his lips quickly, for they were all at once bone-dry. He stepped back a pace defensively, till his spine almost knocked into the doorframe, and wondered vaguely what the verdict might be.

"Do you like it, then?" He noted he sounded a little odd. Not like himself at all, really. "Er. That."

Win or lose, pass or fail, it might very set the tenor for this whole visit. What he'd done, him and his Mum. For Potter.

"I tried—_we_ thought—you—might. Well…"

"You? You—_really_?"

Potter squinched up his face at Draco, curiosity in every line. His eyes were utterly brilliant, green as dragon-fire in the low-level lighting the elves had left behind after their cleaning spree. He stuck the flat of one hand out, fingers curling up as he waggled them about aimlessly. As if he'd been handed something, and didn't quite know how best to hold on to it, maybe.

Draco blinked back at him and shut the fuck up. He'd not been making much headway explaining, had he?

"You've made my Room for me? _Here_, Draco?"


	39. Chapter 39

Two robust Wizards and their equally robust toddlers had invaded Malfoy Manor. Christmas Eve.

It was—for Harry—a bloody nightmare. How as he to know to what was happening? Spates of French, in lulling musical descants, completely incomprehensible for a boy educated half-Muggle and half-Wizard and all wrong, really, when it came to little items like the foreign languages, and all of it pouring over his head until—

"My dear Harry," Narcissa, ever the consummate hostess, pulled him aside and slipped him a tiny vial of something pink and glowing, "you must drink this. Conversancy Potion. It will allow you to both understand and to speak fluently. And our dear deLisles are quite the most, ah?" She raised a sculpted blonde eyebrow. "Hmm…shall we say? They are the most gregarious of our extended Malfoy relations. Talkative, yes; that, as well. It will be best for you to be able to follow, know what is said, _oui_? I don't wish you to feel…uncomfortable."

One pink potion, downed. Quickly. Harry blinked at her, cautiously awaiting events.

"_Mon dieu_," Narcissa carried on, tilting her head at him and narrowing her knowing blue eyes and Harry was at once presented with the feeling her words had a quite a different sort of aspect to them. Familiar to his ears, but yet exotic, simultaneously. At least he no longer felt as much the boor. "It is also of particular interest to _you_, Harry, I expect? As our Marc here is both a mummy and a daddy." She patted him on the arm of the hand which clutched nervously at his glass of warm spiced cider. "I'm certain he'll be more than pleased to answer any questions you may have on the subject of children, on a much more personal basis than our esteemed Healer Zook might. _Do_. Please." She smiled at him sweetly. "Don't be in the slightest bit shy, will you? Ask away, dear boy—ask away. Whatever you fancy."

Harry hadn't even needed to actually _ask._

"You must see, it was not easy, our life," Marc de Lisle was saying moments later, and to Harry specifically. "The constant travel, the conflict of schedules. The pressure, yes?" A Harry who nodded along gamely and realized with a bit of a start that French was now his new second tongue. These Malfoys—they did bloody well think of everything, didn't they? "I—we." He fluttered a hand at the two children, both of whom had been captured by a beaming Narcissa. "We, my dear husband and myself, we do nothing lightly, _non_. It was not for—ah!" Brilliantly white teeth were snapped in his face across the salad of kale and imported cranberry dressing; Marc deLisle's grin was blinding. "The notoriety of it, nor to secure our two inheritances, though naturally they are quite substantial. No. It was for…love. Only love."

As if this was the be all and end all. Love.

Oh, yes. Two robust Wizards, possibly in their thirties, and two absolutely stunning little children who looked just like them both, a boy and a girl, whizzing round the table as children did do when faced with a long and elaborate meal, and Narcissa smiling the whole time like a bloody loony. Pleased, in the face of her own son's obvious chagrin. For Malfoy was off his game, Harry could see that in a glance. Conversing grimly with the other deLisle, and drinking his supper.

Harry took heart. Language aside, he could talk to these people; he was perfectly capable. If they would just be still? For then Robert deLisle was up and gathering the two little ones, remonstrating them for their manners in a genial but stern way, and shooing them back to their seats. Bernard and Giselle, was it? And Marc was moving to urge the darlings to eat up their veg and employ their serviettes properly. But it was Marc at the real eye of the maelstrom: slipping into his seat again, smiling, hushed of voice and quite agreeably amiable.

Harry had been cheerily informed they were the French Ministry's premiere diplomats by trade and had been posted safely in New Zealand and other parts abroad nearly the entirety of the Voldemort wars. This surprised him not at all, given the incredibly expressive way in which both deLisles communicated. No doubt they were absolute aces at it, persuading other diplomatic types to concede this and that—and to look kindly upon the French Ministry's foreign trade endeavours.

"What, exactly," he asked, duly intent, and fully aware Malfoy had been eyeing him up covertly , all this time, never ceasing, from his place across the table. "What precisely, was it like for you, the birth? Eh..." He looked to two pouty small ones dutifully shoveling down their au gratin and shrugged. "Births. Was it…?"

"Painful—horribly, terribly, _evilly_ so, or so they tell me. To be honest," Marc grinned at him, catching up a child by the waist and shushing him, "I remember very little of any of that." He shuddered theatrically and smiled wide at Harry, a man to whom charm came naturally. "Best that way, I'd say. I'd not hesitate to advise you ask dear Healer Zook for the selfsame potions he gave me, prior to the procedures. You'll thank me, most definitely, afterwards. And when is your time, Harry—I am may address you as 'Harry', yes? Let us always be comfortable with each other, I always say. When it _is_ your time—"

Marc deLisle was indeed, as Narcissa had promised, most informative. Graphically so. Harry shuddered at some the rather more gory details, afterbirth and whatnot, cords and scalpels, and tried not to think too hard about the coming trials he'd endure when the lump up his duff decided it was at last time to make its appearance.

"The cramps of the joints, yes? They are the most toublesome." Marc raised his eyebrows. "Like the little pins-and-needles, hmm? Of course you are feeling them. They really do persist, do they not? Perhaps you may try to rub a little salve of—"

And so it went, with Marc chatting up a storm in Harry's ear and Robert, the other adult deLisle, running interference with the children and Narcissa over a late port-and-brandy session and then shooing those same stupidly adorable kids off to a very much delayed bath and bedtime. And then, finally, _finally_, the remainder of them all retiring to their beds. Ever so late, terribly _late._

"Potter? Come _on_, Potter...be'time."

And Malfoy, that wanker, more than passibly pissed off his imperious Pureblood face by the quantities of wine he'd consumed, ended up wending and lurching his way along after Harry as _he_ trudged his way to their shared quarters. With a hand caught on Harry's sleeve all the damned way, the idiot.

Bed provided no relief. Because the handsy git was absolutely indiscriminately grabby of Harry's bum and more than affectionate everywhere else, in just that irksome way some really lucky drunks had, blast them. Harry, naturally, had drunk nothing harder than pumpkin juice and warmed spiced cider all evening. He was stone cold sober and feeling it with a vengeance. And Malfoy was his alcohol-fumed personal Wizard-sized quilt, the wanker, draping everywhere over Harry he could reach and half squashing Harry's one arm and his poor achy shin bones to mash with a budging and quite bony kneecap.

"Potter. Potter, Potter."

"Nhm." Harry lay flat on his back, staring up at the midnight purple canopy with wide eyes, unable to sleep. Truly, Malfoy was hateful. His breath alone could drop a hippogriff at twenty paces. Harry felt quite nauseous, having it slopped up his nostrils when Malfoy attempted to snog him.

"Potter?"

Harry scowled, nimbly avoiding those creeping lips, though the rest of the sot was another matter entirely. Oh, the fool, wrapped about him, hand so hot and so wide on his stretched belly, another hand gripping hard on his hip. And...was that a third hand, slipping beneath him and bruising his buttocks? Slurring faintly, too, Malfoy was, when there was not a single vowel that could be slurred in Harry's surname.

"N'rgh," Malfoy grunted softly, at last giving up on the messy one-sided snogging. He peered blearily at Harry, blinking quickly when a dollop of tumbled ghost-white hair viciously tangled itself into his eyelashes. "Potter. Were they—" He squeezed Harry's bum, maybe meaning soemthing by it; who could tell? "_Him_. Marc fellow, chatty—did'j'you?"

"Er...what?" Harry had no patience with fools, generally, but this _is _Malfoy, and yeah—he's an _idiot._

"Potter!" Only an idiot would dare poke a pregnant Wizard in the ribs at some ghastly hour of the morning. "Potter. N'swer me!"

"Hmn?" Harry sighed heavily and shrugged angrily away, rolling over. "No." Only to be instantly followed and blanketed again by the utterly oblivious tosser. "Fuck, Malfoy. I don't even know what you're saying to me, you stupid sot. Go to sleep, damn you. Be quiet!"

"…Pot...ter…Potter."

They were situated in the study. Not the Quidditch one, obviously, but Harry's own new little Room, and plumped in the centre of Harry's own newly re-created violently violet bed. Sprawled, actually, in the case of the great greedy tit with no manners at all who'd been medically allowed to down at least two bottles of what had probably been a very fine red wine all by his lonesome. Whereas Harry had been allowed exactly none. Pumpkin juice, bah! What was he, a child?

"Potter?"

Oh, yes...there was that. A child. Harry glowered silently, gritting his teeth and refusing to respond, feeling jealous as hell, horribly adult and responsible, and grumpy as a Troll over all of it. But idiot Malfoy only poked his nose vaguely about Harry's one exposed cheekbone, blinked slowly in his general direction and didn't seem to notice a damned thing wrong with his bedmate, repeating himself for the umpteenth time.

"Potter?"

The berk's lips brushed the tip of Harry's nose, tickling it. He grimaced; he'd no idea Malfoy could be so...so bloody elastic!

"Pot_ter_? Potter."

"_What_, now?" Harry stared fixedly out the windows, biting at his lips when Malfoy pawed at him. Oh, but it was pitch-black in the countryside and so still, snow falling down. Soporific. And he was exhausted, just dreadfully. "Actually, _no_. Don't tell me. Go to sleep. Stop bothering me."

Malfoy buried his face into the hair at the back of Harry's head instead, his lips tickling Harry's nape. "...'Arry?"

"No." And they'd not shagged, and they were certainly not about to, not with Malfoy inebriated and his dick mostly limp and sweaty where it pressed into Harry's hipbone, rocking softly. But he'd wrapped his limbs in a very familiar way round Harry, regardless. "_No_."

"C'mere? Potter...?!" Malfoy, the idiot, had the gall to seem surprised when Harry shoved at him. Wounded, even. As if.

"I said 'no', Malfoy. Dolt."

"Potter."

Harry's glare did nothing to stop him. No—he was more like a starfish, only with far too many arms and legs and all of them awkward and akimbo, scrambling. And was again attached—very much attached. Like Harry was his rock or something.

"...'ry?"

"Look, can't you just shut it? It's late. I'm knackered."

_"__Potter_." Malfoy nestled himself closer in, anyhow, and smiled brilliantly down at Harry, as he'd accomplished some great feat of valour; like maybe tackling the wild Potter at bay? "Potter. _Hah_-reee," he announced, clearly pleased with himself. He hovered there, looming over Harry in a befuddled way for an instant...Till he abruptly collapsed in a boneless heap, mostly atop Harry's hip, arm and shoulder, and snorting incoherently.

Harry groaned, resigned to being made into a rock. At least rocks were able to lay still and _sleep_. "_Go _to sleep. And, and, _fine, yo_u asinine twat, you can lay all over me, _I_ don't care. Just…just go off to sleep now, will you please just, for the bleeding love of Merlin? You're going to have a hell of a head in the morning as it is. God, I hope you _do_."

Malfoy snuffled at the skin of Harry's shoulder, making a strange little sad noise, wet-sounding. It annoyed Harry no end. "…'Otter…?"

"And? _And_, Malfoy?"

"...'Arry?"

"I hope you _suffer_."


	40. Chapter 40

It's not been so bad, Potter's stay at Draco's home. Gone swimmingly, a lot of it.

In six days, Draco's managed to adjust his potion as promised, introduced Potter to the environs of the Manor and the local beauty spots and incidentally finished off with flying colours the long-term assignment Slug had handed his Advanced students three days before the holiday break. He's slept in Potter's bed every night and taken any number of naps there besides, nursed two separate hangovers out of his system and been continually, gruellingly civil to his own mother. Whom he loved dearly. Who was, he had to admit, manipulative beyond even anything _he_ could ever contemplate.

She'd taken an unnatural delight in the furnishing of Harry's room with genuine Muggle items, venturing ably to Piccadilly in Town to visit the stalls in their pathetically non-magic little market and then to various other shopping locations—Harrod's, was it?—investing quite as much time into the choosing of new instances of those strangely shaped, horridly ugly novelty teapots Potter favoured as she did into choosing new robes at Twilfoot & Tatting's. She'd procured the Weird Sisters posters, a weather-beaten old desk so closely resembling the one back at Hogwarts it was practically a cousin—even a purple sofa and Draco's preferred linens. All from one brief, brilliant use of Legilmency, accomplished by Draco sticking his head through the Floor network and visiting her one night after supper and before rounds. And all in the bare week she'd had to her own devices before the two of them descended on Malfoy for the hols. His Mum was amazing; Draco adored her.

She'd gone as far as to rescue the Malfoy version of Harry's old bassinette from the attics and refinish it by hand, with very little elf assistance, just to add that final degree of verisimilitude, and she'd shanghaied the deLisles into visiting despite their other pressing official commitments, purely so Potter would have a better point of reference for his upcoming ordeal. And all of that was lovely, and thoughtful to the extreme, and Draco appreciated it all vastly to be sure, but. But!

She was unrelenting, in her constant little hints Potter would be making his home at the Manor in the future, after the baby came. She was bloody dogged, in her continual devising of activities designed to throw them together every waking moment. She was...she was so fucking assured, as if this were all a given, an expected outcome, when Draco knew full well it was not.

Harry's social veneer was just that, a thin skin. Draco could see the cracks developing, could sense them before they happened. He'd not wanted to come, really, and had only done so because he must. Drace knew that, of course. Knew it was a strain for him, all this smiling composure constantly, politely maintained, and that on top of the normal exhaustion Potter struggled with daily. And his Mum wasn't helping matters and neither was the Manor itself, what with its instant acceptance of Potter as a full-blood Malfoy and all the attendant little tells of that. Though Draco had to admit the suddenly much telescoped rear stairwell was a nice touch and he did very much enjoy the look on Potter's face every time a door opened, beckoning silently for him to enter or exit, or a chair skittered out to make itself available to sit. Not to mention the masterful way in which all his deceased relatives in their frames kept their many painted yaps shut, and that was surely the Manor's doing, never breathing so much as a negative word as to Harry's half-blood status, his current condition or his antics in stymieing so successfully the Death Eaters, who'd been used to once roam the halls as if they'd the right.

The occasion of the second hangover was in fact a waking one, and one induced specifically by the arrival of their Goblin barrister just that morning. Who'd been invited by his Mum to officially settle a portion upon Potter and the child. The interview was excruciatingly polite and bristling with legalities, much flourished with quill plumes and signings of parchments. Potter had emerged from it pale-faced and pinched of lip and had immediately retreated to his little Room, without providing Draco a single opportunity to adroitly slip in behind him. The snick of the lock rattling the knob in Draco's hand had been pretty well clear.

Potter had had enough, cheers. He'd finally been driven to duck the hell out, leaving Draco at loose ends completely. It was only amazing he'd not chucked it, marched down to the Village and taken the next Express out.

The day had dragged after that. One could only do so much revising, only so much schoolwork in advance. The prospect of a night spent alone in his own bed for once had done nothing for Draco's flagging mood. He'd hit the brandy early, disdaining dining with his mother, and spent hours sulking before the fire in his bedroom. No…brooding. He wasn't twelve any longer, was he? Sulking was for children and halfwits. Brooding was for adults who'd fucked up their personal lives on a massive scale.

Brooding viciously, and it got no better when he at last threw himself across his own bed, bouncing a little and with his stomach sloshing in his ears, empty as it was of anything other than fumes and evaporating Ogden's. But there was no peace to be found in Wizarding whiskey. He'd not thought there would be but that door was just so depressingly shut tight against him and what else was there to _do_?

There was nothing to do, really.

He was at a standstill, Draco concluded dourly. When push came to shove, Potter fled. He scarpered out, mentally if he couldn't manage it physically. Draco had seen this in action; he _knew_. And all the machinations by all the well-meaning people in the world wouldn't persuade the little git to do otherwise, Draco just knew that too. Potter wouldn't be pushed and he wouldn't be led and there was a limit—and Draco had crossed it, again and again. Had pretty much delighted in crossing it, too, as if it were all a game they were playing, he and Potter, and both enthusiastic.

Thing was, Potter _wasn't_ playing. Not even a little bit. And Draco had known it, had realized he needed to tread very carefully and then been arrogant enough not to take his own good advice to heart.

"Tch!"

He had two days left him, only the space of forty-eight hours, to repair the damage done, best as he could. Problem was, he wasn't even certain as to the length and breadth of it.

"_Fuck_."

He rolled over on his queasy, hollow-feeling stomach fretfully, tightly clutching at a pillow in place of Potter's absent body. Which felt awful, and all too pointless, and was nothing like enough to console him.

"….Oh, god…._god_."

Two days. Only two, left to him. And not a clue as to _how_.

"Fuck."


	41. Chapter 41

"Piss off! Take **that**, you!"

Harry was in midst of destroying his third teapot in a whole straggly line of them when it stuck him. What that bloke Marc had said, and maybe mixed into that a vague memory what McGonagall had intimated to Harry well before then: there was a certain unusual magic to Magical babies. A 'something' they gave back to their bearers, their parents, that was greater even than all the sum of what Harry had given up already.

He had a well of it inside him. A fountaining, gushing, never-ending spring of it.

"Reparo."

A thousand tiny shards of pottery and porcelain instantly scrambled themselves back together, and Narcissa Malfoy's handpicked replacements for Harry's real-honest-to-gods-Muggle ones were again pristine.

Not minding the bustle, he flopped down on the sofa, which he'd not bothered to Transfigure at all, knowing Malfoy himself couldn't penetrate his hasty defenses and open that door. That was the one true perk of being accepted as 'family' by the Manor, one good thing he'd taken away from the endless interview with their bloody Goblin-at-Law: Harry had all the advantages of being a blood-born Malfoy at his fingertips, including the ability to demand total privacy on occasion. Not even a nuclear bomb would knock down that door if Harry didn't agree to it. Malfoy had no chance of gaining entry, the wanker. Malfoy could bloody well rot all night outside it for all Harry cared!

"Bloody!"

He was so, so angry, so frustrated—so fucked over, really, as his dream of keeping his distance from Malfoy receded. Nail in the coffin, Narcissa going so far as to sign over a great lot of the Malfoy Galleons solely for him and for the…the baby. Now there was an obligation pressing down upon Harry that was cold as coin and as practical. Not that he needed funds, nor ever would, especially not theirs, but the child? The child might very well. And Harry clearly remembered the warm feeling he'd had in the centre of his chest, the day he'd walked into his parent's vault at Gringott's and seen how they'd cared for him, for his future, care all laid out in gold, and in silver, and in bloody _money_.

Right—fine. Yes. He couldn't refuse it, then. As much as he wanted to. But he didn't need roll the fuck over, either.

"You could call it peace, perhaps," Marc deLisle had mused, idly twisting the stem of his wine glass in long fingers, his gaze far away gone. "Or a special strength, or a power, maybe, but it is not that. Not only that, Harry. And you?" The man's eyes had sharpened in an instant, focusing on Harry's. "You have likely already felt it, I'd hazard. That exquisite sense of…ah!"

A shake of a perfectly combed head of hair, a gesture of a robed arm indicated a wealth of the unspoken. Pity was, Harry didn't really speak that language, either, no more than he did French. He creased his scar with his scowl, projecting as much puzzlement at deLisle as he ever could. This was nonsense and bosh, all of it. The only thing he'd felt so far had been sick to his stomach! And angry. Very, very angry.

"Ah," deLisle sighed, rolling his eyes at Harry. "I could say it was felicity, or…or transport, but sad to report, even we French have no proper word for it. I'm sorry, _mon cher_."

"_It_?" Harry snapped back, irritated. He hated, absolutely despised, being kept in the dark over something that was apparently taking place right inside his own body. Had had quite enough of that before, thanks! "But that's the thing. If it's so important, if it happens all the time to all those Wizards and Witches out there, having their kids, popping out babies left and right, why can't anyone wrap their heads around it and give it a proper name? I don't understand. That's a bit ridiculous, if you ask me."

Marc had laughed at Harry's disgruntled expression, but kindly enough. "_Mais oui._ But that's just the thing, Harry. Not everyone always feels it, this feeling. Not every Witch nor Wizard, not at all. It's…it's a gift, not a Merlin-bestowed right. If you're of the most fortunate, it comes to you. Gradually, at times, and perhaps over a period of many months, but it comes. And you may use it, this—this power of yours, the gift—when you need it most."

"Use it how?" Harry demanded, still not getting it, for what was there to get? "Use it _when_? For what? What is it I'm even supposed to do with something I can't even name?"

"Oh, now." Marc smiled slightly, his clear gaze very gentle upon Harry's scar. He reached out, laying a hand across Harry's clench-tight knuckles where they curled 'round the handle of his cut-crystal mug. "Harry, you will know that, believe me. You're a true-born Wizard and, from what I hear tell, a most amazingly powerful one, perhaps the most endowed of all of us; I must guess that it will happen as it should, for _you_. And—trust me on this, _mon cher_—you will not be worrying nearly so much as to what name to give it when it does."

"Huh…uh-huh. Right, that's just fantastic." Harry scoffed to the deserted Room, huffing heavily, twirling his wand back-and-forth, back-and-forth between impatient fingertips. "Thanks so much for a crapload of nothing." All of which extraneous twaddle did him no good, not if he couldn't picture it, or had no idea how to make use of it, this whatever -it-was force stuck inside him. Merlin's bollocks, he'd enough trouble imagining the bulge behind his navel was a _baby_, a real live person, and not just an impediment!

But…maybe that was it? There'd been an awful lot of things Harry had never known—not been told—growing up. Maybe this was another of those, a peculiarity 'real' Wizards knew about all along, that naturally Harry didn't, damn the double-damned Dursleys!

…All right, not Dudders, maybe, so much, but.

Harry cast his wand on the sofa's plush surface with a huff and caught up a neon orange velvet bolster to hug. He needed something, something to give him a hold on this mess of mental. He needed something to actually think of, so he wouldn't lose his tiny mind, caught up in this tangle of Malfoys and Old Money and Older Blood.

He'd never asked for this, not any of it. Harry couldn't even hazard a guess as to why Hogwarts would ever think he might—oh, but buildings didn't really think, so much, did they? It was more…it was more that they _felt_. Like people did, but then again differently. More like a bloody committee of mish-mash feelings, all mixed up and sometimes conflicting and at odds, sometime in unison, but made up of the wishes and memories and emotions of the many who'd dwelt within their walls, till at last there was some form of sentience.

Sentience…well, that about described the Manor, too, didn't it? Doors that opened to welcome? Corridors that foreshortened themselves because the person walking them was dreadfully encumbered with a excess kid? And, most ridiculous of all, bloody hordes of bloody snow-white silly birds with silly tales that formed a living phalanx about his legs and kept him warm when he was walking?

And then...rooms full of books that came flying at his very thought, stacking up beside him and ready for easy research. So easy, it was all so easy. No wonder Malfoy was a spoilt brat.

Harry hadn't wasted any time using the Malfoy Library. He and the git who owned it had spent any number of productive hours there these last few days, and Harry had made it a point to learn as much as he could about what was happening to him. To them, really, as his hoity-toity silver-spooned fuck-buddy was just as caught up in it as Harry was. And maybe he'd been a little mean about it, all he was learning. It would do nicely to know what weaknesses Malfoy had taken on for the sake of this kid, for the future. How impending fatherhood had him balanced over the barrel, dependent on Harry's whim and the child's wellbeing. Might come in handy, some day soon, when Harry required ammunition or an easy out.

An…_out_. An escape hatch. That struck him, like a mental blow; Harry flinched at it, blinking at the darkened panes of the Room's charmed windows. They weren't real windows, no. They'd been made to look like they were, courtesy of Narcissa's spells and the house's own magic, but they didn't really exist. They couldn't possibly—Malfoy's suite wasn't laid out in that way. Harry's Room was nothing more than a great big cupboard, tucked into the innards of the structure.

Bloody metaphor!

There was no 'out', not for either of them….was there?

It could even, he puzzled slowly, have something to do specifically with Draco, with it being the two of them directly physically involved, and then there was also Malfoy's potion. A really very primeval brew, that. Blood, spit, cum, sweat—tears? When ever did Malfoy cry, then? Harry hadn't seen him do it, not for ages, and if he'd his druthers he'd rather never see that again.

"…No….no?" Harry murmured aloud, deep in contemplation. Why and how and what, exactly? That was the question, wasn't it, and maybe it was really just the prefect time to think it all through, like an adult—like a parent was supposed to, right?

"Shit! How am _I _supposed to know this shit? Tell me that, will you? Buggerall."

Might be the kid himself causing it—or herself—for Zook hadn't said either way and Harry hadn't asked, feeling rebellious. Well, not the baby, as the baby wasn't much, yet. But, connected to the baby, just like Marc deLisle had said. Because of the baby, then. So…some arcane organic method of Nature providing for the infant's protection, for its continued development safely inside by means of messing with the bearer's perception? Like an Imperius, only not quite?

Could be that Harry was…well, to be blunt, there was more of him, substantially more. Maybe one's magical self increased proportionally with bodily mass? But if that were so the Slug would be a master Wizard, on the same level as Dumbledore had been, and he manifestly wasn't. And Voldemort had been nothing much more than a reanimated corpse and look how formidable he'd been—so it wasn't that.

This thing, this thing...what _was_ it?

It was a considerable while later Harry finally conceded he'd no bloody idea, really, what this force was, this 'it' he should be feeling. He'd need Hermione, maybe, to help him sort it, but then Hermione wasn't much involved in this whole disaster, was she? She'd helped him pick out a suitable gift for each of the Malfoys for Christmas morning and made some random crooning, cooey noises of sympathy at Harry whilst doing so but she'd left him pretty alone after that, and he appreciated it. Ron had merely clapped him on the back—carefully—and pulled an awful face at him. Right before Harry had gone down to meet Malfoy and climb into their specially bespoke carriage.

"Rotten luck, Harry,' he'd said soberly, and zipped his gob right quick. Thank Merlin.

'Rotten' indeed!

What was truly rotten was the state of Harry's head after all this long time of intense thinking. And his body, cramping up and terribly achy from sitting slumped for hours on end, and then no supper.

With a start, Harry truly realized he was knackered and chilled through and a little hungry, though not too badly, that last. His stomach could wait, though. Bed called, sweet, sweet sleep, but the effort of dragging himself up and off and Transfiguring the sofa he was sitting on just seemed to be a bit much, at the moment. If stupid Malfoy were present, to do it for him…oh, yeah.

Malfoy was out there, beyond the door, probably deep in a strop and just waiting to pounce on him. But Malfoy had a bed, already made up, and he wasn't too shabby at being Harry's personal heating unit, either.

Harry growled, an inchoate noise of frustration. It was either sit in the dark and the chill of conjured castle walls and be bloody miserable or venture out to Malfoy's bedroom and be—well, not quite as miserable, right? Physically.

"Buggerall…right, then," Harry muttered darkly, easing himself out of the man-eating cushions. "Time to face the bloody music, I guess." He closed his eyes as he found his feet, swaying, and bent awkwardly over to catch up his wand. And sent a little prayer off, though he didn't have much faith in it, really. "Please just—be asleep?"


	42. Chapter 42

Draco had been dozing, drifting along in a bitter sea of something not nice, and not really sleeping at all, when a hand pressed hard and firm against his back, right in the centre. A man's hand; one he knew well.

"Shove over. Big lump," he heard. Softly, and from behind him. The mattress dipped and he instinctively tensed where he lay, freezing into a statue.

"God, you smell like a wine vat again," Potter snarled the insult quite unkindly but very quietly indeed, being barely audible through the sudden funny buzz in Draco's eardrums. "No—that's more like slop on the Leaky's floor, isn't it?" he heard Potter add, in a thoughtful sort of voice. Then Draco was poked, or rather jabbed, right smart in the one kidney. "_Tosser_. Manky tosser. I said to budge _over_, Malfoy. Move!"

Draco didn't shift a single muscle; he couldn't. Except his eyes popped open, and there was only the usual dark of his bedroom before him, velvety dim and indistinct, the fire in the hearth burnt down to a bare glow under the ash. But behind him was the sense of that other human being, muttering and all cold hands and colder feet, and right nasty about sticking them straight on Draco's calves and ankles, so the chill penetrated right through his trousers and socks and wasn't the slightest bit comfortable, even for a uncomfortable as Draco already was.

He'd not gotten undressed; hadn't bothered earlier. There'd been no point to it, not when he was pretty much destined to be by himself all night long. And the day after, too, and maybe even for days yet to come. Potter hadn't had a qualm about shutting Draco out before this, had he? Cutting him right off? There was no reason to think he might act any differently this time.

No reason. The week at home hadn't gone too badly—not till this last morning, leastwise— but Draco could hardly say with any validity he was of the honest opinion Potter was enjoying himself, either.

"No, really. Move over," Potter urged him again, and what had to be Potter's forehead was felt, mashed against Draco's rigid spine. "Why_ are_ you so stupid, Malfoy? Can you not hear me? Git."

Draco grimaced at the dark, a flare of fury flashing behind his eyelids, causing a burn through his bewildered brain that echoed straight down through to his toes, where they curled. His poor abused stomach rumbled loudly at the very same instant, giving him away. A traitor; he was his own worst enemy, wasn't he?

"Right, _no_. Don't wake up, please; suit yourself, selfish beast. Just give me—a—little—space!" Potter managed to yank the duvet from under Draco's cast-in-stone body and drag up a corner of it. "There…I've got it, and thanking you for nothing. _Un_believable!"

Unbelievable, was he? And what was Potter, then? Draco clenched his teeth, swallowing hard as a glut of acid bile rose up his throat, choking back any protests he might've summoned. This was the last thing, the very last thing Draco could entertain happening to him—Potter come out of hiding, and wanting his bedclothes? This wasn't a possibility he'd dared think of, not even remotely, that Harry would ever emerge voluntarily.

He'd not bothered himself to consider it, more like. He was a bloody realist, wasn't he? And it didn't seem like what Potter might do, not in the mood he'd been in, not as furious as he'd been. Not when he'd probably instantly blamed Draco for all of it, the entire fiasco, even though Draco had had nothing to do with the calling in old Bogbean, though if he'd ever thought of what his own Mum must've thought of, honourable Slytherin she was and_ the_ Malfoy matriarch, he probably would've.

Oh…he would've. Would've hauled Bogbean in and whipped out his cheque book and gathered up his vault keys and handed it all over in the blink of an eye. It would've been the right thing to do, the proper thing. Setting up Harry and their child with all the funds they needed or might ever need, to live comfortably? To never fear for lack. Oh yes, he'd do it. He owed it to Potter; he'd have done it like a shot, if he'd only come up with the idea first.

No, all Draco had managed was to make an unused cupboard into a facsimile of a place Potter fancied. Not much use, that. Not even a stretch, really. And his Mum had taken on most of the work of it, really.

But, fact was, he'd _not_. He'd not set up for Bogbean to come and go about the business of giving over to Harry what was his rightful due. Was his Mum responsible, and he was technically innocent, but that wouldn't stop Potter from hating him for it. From resenting him. And that wouldn't stop Potter from making it very clear Draco was on his shit list again—always was, wasn't it?—and considered a _persona non grata_ and a bloke only to be tolerated, barely. A bloke Potter shagged, strictly because he had to. Requirement, yeah.

No. No. It should've been a dream but it manifestly wasn't; Harry's fingertips were frigid where they tugged at the ends of Draco's hair. It was just he'd just not…just never, ever believed Potter had it in him, _this_. Let himself believe it, rather.

Not a chance.

Draco must've made some sound, he didn't know what, but Potter was handling him still, had been all this time, feeling up his back and 'round his ribs, running fingers down his stiff arm and across his waist. Scrabbling furiously at Draco's upset belly, filled with the whisky that had never helped. No, he'd never been sleeping. How could he ever sleep?

"Oh, bugger, this isn't—look, roll over, will you? For real, please." Potter, apparently unsatisfied, was still grumbling darkly at Draco's back. "And I do know you're awake, Malfoy; you can't hide it from me, so roll the hell over. Put your damned arms around me, okay? And get your arse properly in the bed. I'm freezing my bloody bollocks off here. If I'm going to sleep in this bloody big bed of yours I'd like to be warm at least. Not have my toes drop off from frostbite, thank you. _Wanker_."

"…ulp!"

Draco went at last, letting himself be prodded, doing his best not to let Potter _see_. It was dark, thank Merlin, and he didn't know what there was for Potter_ to_ see, but it might be—it might not be such a good idea, what the way his lower jaw was twisting itself, clamping down on some things he'd _love _to say—needed to blurt out, really—but didn't even have the foggiest clue what they might be till they came pouring out.

"Git!"

Dangerous, to say the least. To say aloud, to Potter's face, when there were no real filters left in his head to prevent him from scaring Potter away again. When he'd no idea how he'd gotten him to come out in the first place?

"Ng."

He went, though, in a rapid rush that made up for all his previous statue-stillness, and took a mostly naked Potter hastily into his arms and let the man jerk the all the sheets and quilts about and then too his own half-unbuttoned shirt all the way open to the waist—'I said it's cold, Malfoy; for god's sake, come here! Loon, you are a bloody loon, aren't you?'—and it was difficult, very difficult, but he managed not utter a single bloody word all through it, the whole process of settling in. Though he couldn't help his hands, and what they did, or his mouth, speechless but plastered to Harry's forehead, tongue tip tasting that telltale scar. Or his heart, thundering away, galloping away, set to beat and bleed right on through and make a mess of the bed. His bed, and Harry in it.

Not a word. Draco hadn't hoped for this, not even a little, not at all, but he wasn't a flat-out total moron either.

He wasn't about to up and ruin it. Not for all his fortune.


	43. Chapter 43

The usual Gryffingit ambush was practically a pleasant affair in the new year; marvels, apparently, never ceased.

"Hhmn'rk," Weasley grunted, or a noise similarly piggish, and nodded over slightly to Draco from a bare foot off his right elbow, where he'd shoved in on the way to Astronomy, "he looks all right. Harry does." A set of teeth gleamed at Draco briefly. "After his posh little holiday."

"Better rested," chirped the much shorter one on Draco's other side, the Granger female, who looked to be better rested herself. Both the Griffindorks did, after their hols, and Draco supposed that was probably good, as far as these things went. Pansy had returned a bit refreshed herself, and been pleased as punch to find Prickwell was no longer in residence. "Less…angry. Less frazzled. Good on you, Malfoy, if you had something to do with that."

He shot each of them a narrow-eyed stare, assessing, and then turned his gaze forward, up the stairwell, where Potter was grasping the banister for dear life and that bloody Thomas bloke was once again hovering over him. Thomas had gotten there first, blasted git, before Draco could push his way through the muddle of Advanced students on their way to Sinistra's class.

"Thanks," he replied, not really minding them. "For that."

"It's a decent cloak, the one you gave him," Granger carried on, evidently in the mood for a chat. Weasley snorted in disgust, choking. Granger grinned up at Draco, not very nicely. "Poncy hat, though. You don't seriously believe he'll ever wear it, do you? Looks like some arse went and skinned a poor Kneazle, Malfoy. With a hacksaw."

The hat in question was quite similar to Draco's own favourite one, fur-lined and very toasty. Draco scowled for a second, furious. Potter hadn't, actually, much cared for the hat. He'd sneered at it and tried to leave it behind on both the Home train and the Hogwarts Express.

"Yeah. Does, doesn't it? And it'll match up so well with the all-coloured jersey Mum made him this year," Weasley's voice was pregnant with a fruity sort of teasing. "The mostly lime-green and purple jersey, that is. Not."

Ahead of them Potter had paused to catch his breath, it looked like. Draco growled under his own, wincing away from the idea of his hat, made especially for Potter as a means to keep his silly damned ears from freezing in a Wilts snow shower, being teamed up with some fucking hideous new sample of Weasley's Mum's handiwork. For years on end Potter's choice of attire had offended his eyes; now he had an opportunity to change that, finally. He'd have to locate the newest waste of magical woolens and make sure to set it discreetly on fire, as there was no way he could tolerate the sight of Potter wearing it. Not when he'd only end up looking like a giant ball of second-rate hideous yarn himself, but on legs. Swollen ones, too. Potter was fatter in the middle, definitely. His week of very decent feeds at the Manor had done his appetite some good, hadn't it?

Gods, yes, a Weasley woolen over top Potter's decided belly lump would be utterly appalling.

But there were more important things than Weasley-made jerseys to fret over, that git Thomas being a primary one of them. He was fanciable enough chap, but nowhere near Draco's own level. And he apparently fancied Potter, something fierce, up the duff or not. Irritated, Draco took a deep breath, meaning to snap back at the Gryffs in passing, but then swallowed it down when a brilliant thought struck him. His brows rose instead, all innocently enquiring and not in the slightest bit supercilious, no. He blinked over at the Weasel, very much butter-wouldn't-melt.

"Hmm. Look to Potter now," he remarked, ever so casually. "Don't you think he could use a little help there? I don't believe your Housemate's services will be quite enough, fat as the little git is. He's blocking the whole of the stairs, isn't he. Speccy face like a boiled prawn, too. Sad going."

"Huh? Harry is? _Harry_ does?" The Weasel gasped, already leaping forward up the steps, long gangly legs in motion. "Shit, he _does_, doesn't he? See you 'round, Malfoy!" He glared back at Draco only long enough to scowl at him meaningfully. "But don't think we're not still watching you, Malfoy, not for a second! You'd better toe the damned line if you know what's best for your arse! I'd hate for it to be hexed off some night, when you're not _looking_."

"Oh, really?" Draco raised an eyebrow ever higher. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks much— that you've outright threatened me, Weasley, that is. As if you'd ever manage to get near enough to do it, which you won't. But…hey?" He tilted his head in Potter's direction. "Best hurry yourselves along there, yeah? Looks like your pet hero's a little fagged out."

"_Oh_! For Merlin's sake, don't let's waste any more time on Malfoy here. Come _on_, Ron!" Granger urged, butting her demanding little head in, and they were both up and off, Draco watching with a certain sense of satisfaction as they elbowed that officious prick Thomas out of the way and took up the requisite looking after of Potter.

He smiled widely at the view of events unfolding above him, though he was quite careful to conceal it. If he couldn't be the one escorting Potter up these awful stairs, all twisty and treacherous and narrow, in the heart of this stupidly horrid old Tower, then wasn't it better to have the two Griffingits he knew ever so well, blast their nosy ways forevermore, do it for him? Better, too, than having yet another chap sniffing at Potter's heels, right? Because even round as a roly-poly pudding, red-faced and huffing, Potter was still a fairly fit sort of Wizard. And that filthy wanker Thomas had best keep his grabby bloody fucking hands to himself!

And he did look a great deal healthier, as a matter of fact. Potter did. Healer Zook had given him a clean bill of it, actually, and gone as far as to hand out faint praise to Draco for the careful adjustments he'd made to his potion.

"You'll have to be certain to watch him like a hawk, naturally, for any other sudden alterations in weight, up or down, Mr Malfoy, but I expect you already do, correct?" At Draco's sharp nod, Zook had tapped a chart he had in his exam room with the tip of his wand. It rested on the seventh month mark, with a tiny pregnant Wizard in profile drawn on it. "We've already come to the conclusion Mr Potter's term will be shorter than most, given the factors involved. He appears to have conceived in the very beginning of September, the start of your term at Hogwarts, but here he is, already, well along. If he's to go at such a rapid pace through this process, I'd say it behooves us all to do everything possible to keep it as problem-free as can be, yes?"

Draco hadn't instantly come back with '_Duh_! Dummy! Of _course_ we do', though he'd have liked to, very much. He'd only nodded again, kept his trap shut politely like a good little patient, and passed over his required vials of bodily fluid samples. He'd honestly been musing over perhaps pursuing a career in healing himself, after NEWTS were over and done with. Be a bit of a waste to not employ all the arcane knowledge he'd picked up on Wizardly physiology studying Potter, wouldn't it?

Then there was Magical Creatures, as well, Care Of, a dastardly and plebian sort of job he'd never have believed before he'd entertain even the slightest interest in, but the giant lump wasn't such a bad teacher, really. When Hagrid bothered, that was. Draco couldn't help but pick up bits-and-pieces, going along on his volunteer Saturdays and then some. It helped he was excused from most of the actual Lectures, of course, and only attended them when he felt like it. 'Auditing', McGonagall had called it, when Draco had gone to see her about sorting out all the hours he spent down the stables with the Thestrals and how to account for them, maybe earn a little additional credit. No point in being a brown-nosed do-gooder if he couldn't reap a real life benefit from it, right?

No, not.

And he had, too. He'd wormed his way into one of the two courses he and Potter hadn't been assigned together from the beginning of term, and that suited Draco's purposes nicely. Only Muggle Studies remained closed to him and truly, that was a subject he really couldn't stomach politely. Keeping track of Potter's Muggleblood quirks occupied him plenty, cheers; he was learning Muggle ways well enough, just from that. And not that Draco had the spare time to voluntarily take more homework, either.

Besides, Pansy had promised she'd keep a weather cocked on Potter in there, and then he'd enlisted the grudging services of Nott and Zabini as well. And that wanker Thomas wasn't attending that class and neither was that great wart of a Snufflepuff, Ernest MacMillan, he and his overtly randy pash on Draco's Potter. And Pansy could ably stomp on any of the Slytherin lad's wily pretensions to climbing in Potter's pants very well, thanks. Pansy was a bit of a fearless wench when she wanted to be.

Small mercies, it was. All 'round. Should be safe enough to let it go, then.

Draco smiled, and this time he'd didn't bother to hide it from anyone. Above him the Golden Ones were stationed on either side of Potter, helping his grumpy-arse, hog-obstinate, stubby little self up the ever decreasing spiral treads. Potter was busy remonstrating with them for it, his frown very fierce indeed and his green eyes sparking. It was a fine turn-out, that, and no grief to Draco. Just the way he liked it, really, when he must always choose carefully his particular battles with Harry in order to successfully mind over him.

Too, the cloak he'd given Potter for Christmas looked pretty well on the prat, even if Potter refused to don the damned furry cap that went with it. It was blissfully warm and made of the finest material available. And the dark, dense pine-forest hue of it had the most wonderful effect on Potter's eyes, didn't it? Yes...fit. Was the word for him. And...not half bad, any of it.

Oh, yes.

Draco was pretty well pleased, all in all, with the ways things were progressing since they'd returned from hols. Maybe the new year wouldn't hold quite so many unpleasant surprises?


	44. Chapter 44

Time was, Harry recalled, when he was perfectly happy fucking off and not fretting too much over anything in particular. Well, not quite. There'd been a few items that lingered after the great big drama his former life had been was finally over with. Ron and the Weasleys, for one, and Hogwarts for another, and sorting out how to go on with an awful lot of gaps in his emotional life all around the edges of those two conundrums. Hell, he'd still been slowly mending the frayed edges where his godfather had been and then he'd been rudely torn up by a cauldron-full of others. Practically every adult he'd ever known and trusted and been fond of, with very few exceptions. And a lot he'd hadn't but maybe should've, all that time.

It had been strange whom Harry missed the most, the first little while of weeks passing. Colin Creevy had been one. Malfoy's stupid ex-henchman, Crabbe, had been another. He couldn't explain it, not even to himself, that last one. It defied him entirely. Crabbe had never been anything other than purely horrid to Harry, but there it was. There it was.

Harry had gone back to Hogwarts because there was work to do there and maybe a little because it niggled after him, the loss of Crabbe. The hole that had been Colin.

Then more of them had come. In drabs and drabs, by Express and by broom and by Apparate, and one of them was Malfoy. And Harry had been completely and quietly unsurprised by that. It was almost as if he'd expected it.

Hogwarts wasn't Hogwarts without a tall git with a sneer stalking around it. 'Reparo'ing broken columns and shattered desks neat as pins and whittering on over the mess that had been made of Hufflepuff House Commons. Tackling that mess with a curled lip and a straight spine and an attitude not even the coming-and-going of the world's most evil Wizard had ever managed to eradicate completely.

Lovely, lovely Malfoy, all smirk—smile _meant _to irk—and platinum elegance. And the occasional cock-up which was hilarious to observe. The git had somehow rubberized the Head Table in the Great Hall on the very first day, entirely by the simple accident of one slipped syllable, and it had taken Flitwick three solid hours straight out of Charming to fix it. Harry could remember that feeling of laughing his arse nearly right off, as the poor Elves threw their hands up and bemoaned a surface that literally bounced every platter, plate and pitcher to hell and gone. Pasties and roast joints and creamed spinach everywhere and oh! My, but the sticky-orangey-ickiness the spilt jugs of pumpkin juice had made! Up to rafters, some of them! Hilarious, all of it; poor Flitwick's frantic casting and the rest of the students all drawn there in straggly huddle to gape and giggle helplessly as the Teacher's High Table experienced its very own food fight—with itself! By itself! By magic!

Even Ron had cracked a smile, thin and wispy, but yes, there—and Harry had been ever so worried all that time before that maybe his best mate would never smile, just like that, again. And then McGonagall's _face_ when she realized she couldn't just take points off Malfoy for buggering up an honest attempt at a volunteer effort!

And…Malfoy's face, after, with his lips all pinched tight and a very careful grip on the hilt of his returned wand, needless to say. And bumping up against Harry's shoulder on the way out of the restored, absolutely spotless Great Hall and him whispering gruffly in Harry's ear 'Bloody Hades, Potter! I thought I already _said_ I was sorry!'

And Harry shrugging back and smiling like an idiot up and replying, 'Wasn't _me_, mate. But thanks for it. Needed that, I think'.

Malfoy pausing for a moment, turning to really actually _look_ at Harry, and then the slow creep of what could only be a reluctant grin when he, too, humped a shoulder and answered, 'Yes, but did you catch how high the bread-and-butter board rebounded? And all the rolls flying? Just like snitches. Think we could quite make of match of it, when it chances to rain. Have to try it again, sometime.' He'd blinked down at Harry for a long second and added a perfectly deadpan 'Potter', and Harry's head had been positively filled with making up nonsensical rules for the newly invented 'Bread-and-Butter Quidditch' for hours after.

It had hit Harry mid-wank and mid-week Malfoy had been pulling. Tentatively, yes, but pulling. Crafty git.

It had taken about all of two seconds to decide he'd say 'yes', should ever the chance arise. And wasn't it a little inevitable, really, that they'd ended up filthy and fucked out, spent and foolishly smiling at nowhere, everywhere and each other, together by the remains of the Quidditch Shed. By that same weekend, and not more than five days into their new acquaintance?

Harry shook his head over it, still. He'd promised Crabbe, or Crabbe's memory. He'd promised Colin, sincerely. He'd live, if they couldn't, and there was that bloody prat, that Slytherin, apparently of the same mind over it. How odd. How it was some things made no sense at all, until they did.

It was Malfoy who managed to twist it all into rights inside Harry's head. And not by saying anything much—no. No, actually, exactly by means of _not _saying much of anything other than 'You like that, Potter? Fine—I'll do it again,' and 'Oi, never sorted _you_ for a pillow biter'. With just that Look on his pointy, still too-thin face at the time, and him all grubby, too, with the dust of the Quidditch Pitch on him and the strangely clean stench of his own sweat, darkening his armpits and staining wet down the back of his perpetually uncreased white shirt.

Wetter after, when he'd wiped their accumulated spunk down the button plaquet. Harry had laughed at him. Malfoy waggled his bloody eyebrows. And they'd fallen to snogging again, having given up fixing the Pitch as a bad job for that day.

Yes, Malfoy. Of all people. With his hand sure on Harry's cock and no sign of anyone uttering an Unforgivable Spell in the offing at all, ever.

That time was gone; that life had passed on.

No, it wasn't any verbal explanation the git had to give Harry. Harry didn't think _he_ owned one, either—no more than he himself did at the time. It was his expression, that honest surprise fallen over it, and the not-to-be-denied flash of delighted lust that lit it up like a thousand candlepower—yes, just those two unexpected feelings which transformed a 'Malfoy' into a 'Draco'.

And gave Harry, incidentally, and rather as a really serependitious side-effect, a method to organize all the incohesive splinters of his creakily-resumed life as a returning Hogwarts student and—ugh!—'triumphing hero' into some sort of working whole.

Harry had missed Crabbe not because Crabbe was anything special to Harry. _No_. Quite the opposite! No, he missed Crabbe because Crabbe had been a part of him once—like a bunion, maybe, yes, or a boil—but there, with Harry, and now he wasn't. Would never be again. But _Harry_ was. Harry was breathing the bracing Scots air and eating kippers and sleeping—not always well, but generally—and using the loo and now and again enjoying the feel of sunshine on his back in the morning and a fast spin on his new broom after curfew. The taste of buttered scones at breakfast, with lashings of jam, the warmth of stewed tea on his tongue in the afternoon—the certain way in which his two best mates watched each other, as if always surprised, and always pretty well grateful, and, well, bloody besotted and disgustingly happy about it.

It had been…it had been a little similar to the way Draco had watched after Harry, beginning from after the first time they'd wanked each other off. A sort of amazedly pleased expression. Rather as if Draco had opened a Chocolate Frog card and had found the rarest of rare—Ptolemy, was it? Or Alberta Toothill?

Didn't matter, the idea was catching. Harry had never had anyone look at him in just that manner, not even Ginny, not even Cho, not even Colin—all right, maybe Colin, but Harry hadn't recognized that particular Look at the time and certainly had never given it back again.

The fantastic pun of it was, the joke?—and Harry could still giggle to himself over this bit, six months later—was Malfoy(no! _Draco_) had wrought this bloody fantastic mental miracle on Harry simply by—hah!—working Harry's _hole_. Good and hard and ruthlessly. With all his heart in it and his opaquely mocking eyes clenched shut when they weren't wide open and glassy-bright, madly staring, and his face all frowny-scowly with bite-his-own-tongue tip effort and his perfect hair flopping down heedlessly, and that same stupid pretty hair mostly trailing endlessly into the corners of Harry's mouth when they snogged. Grunting and cursing and moaning and shouting and determinedly shagging Harry into a beautiful state of mindless euphoria. Being shagged back, for Harry gave as good as he got and then some left over. Going there himself, a tourist, yes—_that _was it. Both of them tourists to a place all fresh and fucking _brilliant_.

Same old Hogwarts, Harry had thought. But it wasn't. It was _they _that had built it, this time. The two of them and so many more, and—and, right. There it was. Reaping the sowing and all that rot, wasn't it?

Harry, recently, had never spent quite so much time biting his tongue as he did after the Christmas hols. That sneering git? Was still a bit sneering when no one was looking at him. He still believed Magic was better than Muggle, hands down, any day one liked to land on. He was still just as absolutely stuck on pursuing his bloody goals to the bitter end and thinking up his idiot schemes to have one over on the world as ever was. He shagged like a bloody god, carried himself like a fucking prince—even stumbling and pissed to the four winds, down the pub in Hogsmeade, come a Friday night after their classes were over with—and was just as quick with a cutting insult as ever was.

He—the _Draco_ part of him—_he_ never stopped with the infernal staring, and he always put his hands on Harry. And he kissed bits of Harry when he thought Harry wasn't noticing and he—?

Would soon as go round or under an obstacle as cross it, and would never turn down an advantage, and he…he presented Harry with a jersey made of a green silk weave so dark as to be almost as midnight as Harry's hair and a pair of vastly practical gloves made of dragonhide and he lifted Harry's book bag right off his shoulder without asking first, or ever.

He—Draco—stared down every man who came close to Harry even by accident. And he bickered endlessly with Ron, even when there was no heat to it and Hermione was grinning behind her book the entire time. And he had set Parkinson to spying on Harry—and he wasn't in the slightest apologetic, either!

He, Draco, he was a blazing-up furnace under that smooth white skin of his, and his eyes were no more colourless and cold than a vat of molten glass was, and when they fucked, with Harry so ungainly and huge, it was lying sideways, spoon-wise, and Draco was as gentle as a surgeon as he entered Harry's hole from behind and was as desperate as a—as a?

And they spent more time sleeping than shagging, and that peculiar opal-eyed Look was still present, always on Harry, and anyone who stepped between them always seemed to step away a little dazed and a little seared.

It lay there, between them, the whatever-it-was, and Harry made sure to not poke at it, and to bite his tongue time and again. He wasn't an idiot; he'd spent a fair time puzzling at it. It was the pause after snogging that was just looking at each other, wondering; it was catching sight of Draco batting a buttered roll across two tables worth and smacking Ron square on the forehead. It was hands and lips and no words, none.

It was a trial, as the git was a trial—that fucking furry hat was a bloody trial, surely!—and sometimes Harry would've quite liked to wring his long neck and hex him with something really nasty, like tar-and-feathers. Cockatrice feathers!

Yes, but. It lay there. Between them. _Requirement_.


	45. Chapter 45

"Oh my god, that's fucking blinding," Draco groaned, thrusting his dazzled eyes deep into the beautifully dark mass of Harry's hair and blinking away the pain. "Haven't you considered adding drapes, Potter? It _is _the dead of winter."

Potter is, as always, very slow in the mornings. "M'nurghh," he grunts and doesn't shift an inch.

"Hateful," Draco mutters, aggrieved. "Snow. Bloody shiny snow. You'd think up this high it'd not be so awful, the glare, but…"

It's a pointless sort of grumble, but it serves to rouse him, better than the surfeit of morning light does, at least.

Draco does shift about, though he doesn't want to. Harry is warm and the air is not, not where it nips his nose. And it's definitely snowed like the blazes in the night because even from their vantage point in Harry's Room the sky is a brilliant aching thin blue and practically glittering with all the reflected, refracted light emanating from tonnes and tonnes of cold white crystals dumped all about Hogwarts and the environs.

"Meh," Draco sniffs, and disengages himself finally, making sure to keep his bedfellow well tucked in as he slips out. Harry did not enjoy being cold in the mornings, either, and he could be quite nasty if Draco messed with the covers and left in a draught. As it is, he hops a little from one foot to another, as the carpet's cold, and so is the Room, and his bare skin is one big goose pimple from it. "Yes, great. Hitting the head now, Potter," he informs the blanketed sausage roll that is Harry, scrabbling vaguely for warmth now Draco's out. "You have five more minutes to sleep and that's it, you know? Use them wisely."

He takes ten, actually, what with his shower and a very exacting Malfoy family shaving spell, and Potter is canny and knows that it's always ten, at least, so Draco's fairly sure when he comes out Potter will have used the extra time to more fully achieve some sort of random consciousness of the fact it's Monday again and there's a schedule to be followed. Maybe.

"Right," he remarks, emerging from the lavatory Harry had thoughtfully provided his Room with, way back in the beginning when the reconstruction efforts were going full tilt. "Bloody, you've not budged an inch, have you? You wanker, Potter. Stop stalling." He frowns at Potter's still form and is tempted to poke it, but restrains himself. "Bath, brekkers, lectures; you know the drill. Up, Potter—up!"

"Mnpgh."

"Yes, you must. Get up."

"….No." Potter eases his head round on the pillow and blinks at Draco, and has the gall to pout. Or at least purse his kiss-swollen lips and wrinkle his nose whilst batting his lashes, all of which adds up to a pout. Draco curses himself silently that he finds this attractive in an eighteen-year old bloke with a ginormous middle. "Nuh-uh."

"Lazy little runt. Don't make me make you, Potter," Draco sighs a long-suffering sigh, coming across the room and tossing his towel over the back of the desk chair on the way. He plops his arse on the mattress and begins to haul on his clean socks, conveniently available atop a little pile of clean laundry. "You won't like it much if I do."

"S'cold," Harry growls darkly. "Don't want to. M'skiving—tell them, yeah?"

"_Not_ skiving, Potter," Draco replies instantly, taking care of his flies and settling his uniform shirt properly across his shoulders. "Don't even think of skiving." The Room had been so obliging as to transfer any number of his personal things and a large part of his wardrobe up from Slytherin some time before. "You cannot afford to skive. NEWTS. And those will have to happen sooner rather than later anyway because of the kid—er." He coughed. "Erm, due to your condition, I meant. You know that. So come on out and stop your stalling. Time's wasting away."

"Grr!"

"Arse." Draco finishes knotting his tie and checks to make sure his Prefect pin is in place and polished, which it is, right there on the robes he's not yet donned. "Really, you must come out now. I'll even wait for you if you hurry it up." He extends a restless hand and smoothes down Potter's impossible hair, scowling fretfully. "But don't make _me_ be tardy, please."

It's clear the 'please' is actually not a 'please' at all.

"Fine—fucking_ fine_," Potter at last relents and rolls over to leverage his bulk upright, the duvet falling about him as he does. "I wouldn't dream of it, Malfoy, indisposing you. A hand here?"

He gets one, Draco immediately rising and pulling Harry along with him as he goes, till the shorter man's standing blearily on the carpet, curling his toes in distaste at the chill rising off the stone flagstones beneath despite the thick plushy pile of it. Draco hides a knowing smile; Potter in the morning is rather amusing, at least. He resembles nothing so much as a disturbed hedgehog, all bristly and blinking away the cloudy haze of slumber fiercely.

"Brrr!" Harry shivers instinctively, and goes gratefully into the half-embrace Draco gives him, one-armed and loose, as he's shrugging on his robes all the while. "Shit, but it's horrible, isn't it? Winter."

"Mm-hmm," Draco nods down at him, grinning. "Horrible, yes." He drops a pale, heavy eyelid in what's not quite a smarmy wink but could be, and laughs a little when Harry pulls a truly nasty face at him. "But a great deal less horrible than missing all your courses and failing NEWTS because of it, you lazy prick. Now, go make yourself decent and get on your kit; you only have a very short time left. I must mind all the wee little mischief-making arseholes this lovely winter morning, remember? Duty calls."

"Sod duty, Malfoy, and sod you. It's not even so much that it's winter, it's all those bloody stairs, is what," Harry grumbles, half to himself and half to Draco, pulling himself away and making his way toward the tiny loo. "I've learnt to hate them all, you know? And why the hell did I ever think a tower room would be a good idea, anyway? I've damn well doubled my effort. Fuck!"

"Well…" Draco taps a contemplative loafer toe and cocks his head at Harry as he pauses at the door of the loo. "You could wish for all the steps to go away, Potter, but I don't believe it's going to work out, honestly. Or you could possibly move your fat arse a little faster and I'll see about carrying your bookbag for you? As a favour, of course. Not that I won't expect something in return for it."

Harry shoots him a glancing flash of a half-grin and doesn't really reply, instead entering the bathroom, making sure to slam the door petulantly behind him as he goes. They both know the payment for all these little favours of Draco's: Harry's kisses.

Draco turns away, to stare blankly out the curving windows at the snowy landscape. It's lovely but very cold indeed and spring is ages away and nearly something unimaginable. He's pretty certain he'll have his snogs with Harry anyway; it's a Requirement, the two of them staying close.

He believes he's pretty much closed the gap, these last few weeks. Persistence is apparently the key to it. And no one ever accused Draco of not being persistent when he wants something—or someone. Not, and not been hexed for it, if Draco should happen to overhear them, that is.

The Room and Hogwarts and Requirement likely has quite a lot to do with it, too, this little thaw that's fallen between them. Besides. Harry's very tired, as far along as he is, and he doesn't seem to have the energy spare to argue near as much as he did before. Or even care that he wasn't.

Draco's pretty glad of the last bit, but the reasons for it don't best please him. No, not at all. He'd rather a feisty Potter than one who's clearly struggling—and hiding it. More fool him!

"You know?" Draco does sometimes talk to it, Harry's Room, especially when Harry's asleep or not in it. "You do know, you great big pile of stupid stones, it wouldn't be a bad idea, you being a little more central to everything. I can't say as I fancy all the steps either. There's a fuck of a lot of them."

He taps the frigid glass with a fingertip, just for something to pass the time as he waits. "Up and down, up and down, all the bloody time."

Harry's still showering and it's a damned good thing Draco's gotten them both out of bed well ahead of schedule or they really would be tardy. He snorts, a little huff of discontented air passing through his nose as he turns it up at the snow, the thought of the bloody millions of steps, and the idea of cooling his heels for another fifteen minutes should Potter attempt the Malfoy shaving Charm. As he does sometimes, just to be a wanker. "And…and you know, don't you? I don't bloody much care for the state of his ankles lately, or how he looks after climbing them. Grey in the face, alright? Grey and fucking knackered. I could do without that, Room. So could Harry. You could damned well be a little more considerate."

He falls silent, and wishes it were that easy, wishing something so, but Hogwarts is hardly likely to rearrange itself completely, even for Harry Potter, its brave defender. Or at the whim of Draco Malfoy, Prefect or not.

"Right, ready!" Harry tumbles out of the loo several minutes later and begins to fling on his clothes. He's got Charms worked in them to disguise the worst of the baby bulge and to lighten up all the strain gravity puts on his body, but it's still awkward as fuck.

"You're not," Draco returns instantly. "Put your proper cloak on, Potter—and take along your hat. We've COMC today and we'll be outside immediately after breakfast. You'll really freeze if you don't. I've told you."

Harry snarls but thrusts the hat into his bag under Draco's stern eye. He finds himself stuffed into his cloak as well, and by a sour-faced Malfoy, who mumbles all through that Potter knows as well as he does Hogwart's corridors and passages are never anything like _heated_.

Harry curses and yanks away, glaring. "Will you just leave off? I'm not the baby here, Malfoy!"

"Ready? Come along, then," Draco orders, swinging both bag straps over a shoulder and catching up Harry's hand with his. "Baby. Time to face the music."

He opens the door. It's a very heavy one, with bands of iron across it and made of oak. It usually takes a bit of effort to shove it open or closed; Draco grunts.

The metaphorical shoe drops.

Very, very loudly.

It's _not _the very short curved corridor they expect to see before them, the one that leads to the narrow spiral stairwell inside the tower housing Harry's Room—no, not!

It's the entry to Great Hall. Undeniably.

And there are no fucking steps in sight. Not a one.

"Bugger me!" Draco breathes, and beside him Harry tilts his head back to laugh aloud. "Bugger _that_! What's happened?" He twists his head round frantically, checking to make sure they are where indeed they appear to be—right outside the entrance to the Great Hall. "Where—the fuck—did…?"

"I think—I do believe—and correct me if I'm wrong, here, Malfoy—" Harry gasps, falling into a round of delighted giggles and little snorts as both book bags hit the floor with a little slapping sound and Draco's jaw stays open as he gapes. "But I do believe it's gone and heard us and taken it as read. No more staircases for me, yeah? Requirement, isn't it? A magical lift—I've a magical _lift_, Malfoy! Merlin!" He whoops a little, grinning brilliantly, "but I do so love Magic—god, yes, I _do_!"


	46. Chapter 46

"_Mr _Malfoy," Healer Zook's gaze is alert and enquiring when he pats Draco's kneecap in passing, just one quick professional knuckle tap. "Did you hear me?"

"…Uh?" Draco swallows. He did and…and then, he also didn't. Sleep had become a property he didn't own much of a decent stake in lately, what with Potter suffering restless legs syndrome and kicking Draco in the shins every half hour on the hour. Or him attempting to roll over in bed, an act of precarious balance and resorting of weight distribution which seemed to require the services of two alert Wizards, five pillows and bolsters, assorted sizes, and four separate pairs of hands. But the word 'critical' in combination with the word 'Potter' had pinged the part of Draco which was also alert and enquiring, yes—_that_ he'd heard. On principle, he didn't like it. He definitely wanted to know more, certainly. "No? Or—actually—"

"Right." Healer Zook raised an unhappy eyebrow at him. "Mr Malfoy, _as_ I said, your Mr Potter, he has achieved a quite critical stage. He's in his eighth month, going by maturation, but only in his fifth, by time progression. As you were well aware; we've discussed that anomaly, I believe. There are...there are, naturally enough, _issues_. Attendant to that. To recap, and honestly, there are a great many issues abounding in regard this particular pregnancy. Mr Potter's health and the baby's are—ah."

"…Ah? _Ah_," Draco prompts, as now he's hanging on every word. "Healer?"

"At risk." Zook takes a deep breath. Draco watches him, mostly numb. Not completely, though. This is Potter, and he cannot help but pay attention. Or ignore the little zing of acid zooming round his gut, winging this way and that and hurting. Draco finds he absolutely hates the word 'risk' when in conjunction with the word 'Potter'.

"And for you as well, Mr Malfoy."

"Me." Draco echoes blankly. It makes no sense, that, and it really doesn't matter. He feels fine, healthy enough, if a little weary sometimes, and that was beside the point. It was Harry. The point was Harry. "...Me?"

And their baby.

Zook is looking a little grim about the edges but clearly attempting to disguise it.

"Mr Malfoy, allow me to say this one more time, at the risk of repetition. A baby does not simply come from nothing. Especially a Wizarding child. For male couples it is quite complicated indeed. I'm not sure how far you've gone into the clinical details of the process but combining two male sperm into a viable zygote is nearly always fraught with inherent difficulties. Nurturing the foetus inside a bodily cavity not meant to sustain is tantamount to a bloody miracle, to put it bluntly. A Wizard is _not _meant to carry, much less bear a child. Certainly no male Muggle can do it, not as yet, and not with their current levels of medical practice. But of course we can, us Wizards, because we are what we are. If we will it to happen sufficiently strongly enough, and then help the process along with incantations, potions, and other magics as a follow-through, it is more than possible—it is even inevitable." He nods at Draco and 'tchs!' sharply, clearing his throat after. "Ahem. In some relationships."

"Relationships? Right, sure." Draco blinks some more; this isn't sinking in at all, what Zook's getting at. "So? Your point, Healer? You mentioned Potter and…and_ issues_. I assume there are some, then."

Healer sighs and hauls up a low stool, taking care to settle his robes and wand as he seats himself on it.

"Again, and not to be needlessly repetitive, Mr Malfoy, but there comes a time in every male pregnancy when its necessary for me to have this little talk with the other father. If there is one available, that is. In your case, there most definitely is. _You_."

"Yes? All right?" Draco decides instantly he could do without this 'little talk' but clearly they'll be having it. "What is it I need do, then? Because I assume I will be needing to do something more for Potter?"

"Correct, Mr Malfoy." Healer treats him to a glancing grin. "But not only for Mr Potter—it will also be for your own good health, and your child's. Of course you have been supplying your potion to Mr Potter, and that brew, along with his own internal chemistry, is the basis for the developing infant's health, magical and physical. However, that's been a completely one-sided exchange, thus far. That's one issue, and a crucial one. And, although I imagine you feel well enough, it takes an eventual toll on a fellow, to be constantly siphoning off his own magical essence to give over to another. Two others, in fact, and very needy ones, too. You may've noticed that your magic is not as accurate in focus, or as intense, perhaps?"

Draco shakes his head. He's not noticed any such thing, but then he's not been paying much attention to what he's been doing lately, as his coursework is pretty much a sodding cakewalk. Brewing takes nothing out him, Astronomy is simply staring through Muggle tellyscopes and Wizarding lenses. For COMC it's more physical, tossing bales of fodder and shovelfuls of shit and occasionally showing up in Hagrid's smelly Hut to take notes and keep a good eye on Potter. DADA has always been easy enough; there's only one other Wizard who can match him on defense and that's Potter, of course. Transfig is also easy-peasy pie, and Draco can spell vases to be toads and back again in his sleep if he must need. Divination is a joke, as always, as is History. Advanced Runes is maybe a little bit of a challenge, but really consists mainly of writing incredibly long essays and of not fucking up the translations to plain English overmuch. Charms are a lark, especially as Flitwick has them concentrating on the ones used for repair and reconstruction, naturally, and Draco has himself plenty of practice still, when he and a few of the other elder students devote their usual two hours per weekend to tracking down and fixing the remaining damage to the castle.

No. There's nothing wrong with him. If there is, he's not noted it. He frowns, and parts his lips to tell Healer exactly that, as the focus really needs to return to Potter—but.

"I can tell, Mr Malfoy," Healer chuckles knowingly, reprovingly, effectively forestalling him, "that you do not believe me in the slightest. Granted, you are one of the strongest young Wizards I've ever met, going purely by the numbers. You and Mr Potter both. And you are both quite, quite young in your years to be embarked upon the journey of parenthood; perhaps your youth has handed you an advantage. And of course there is the wild card, magically speaking, that is Hogwart's intrusion into your personal lives, yes?"

Draco hardly has the chance to gasp angrily before Zook's carrying on. "Yes, indeed. Perhaps all these factors have gone some way into explaining why you've been treated gently thus far by our dear Mother Nature, but the fact remains. Your essence—_your_magic, Mr Malfoy— is impacted negatively and has been. Ergo, it's time to begin the next phase of our procedure, I think."

"Excuse me," Draco raises his chin, as he's not best fond of being informed he's 'young in years', cheers, even if it's true. He doesn't feel all that young, most days. "This next phase you speak of. It quite sounds as though you're wanting Potter to do something for_me_."

Zook's smile is absolutely evil. Or it seems that way to Draco at least. When his stunned ears manage to sort Zook's next few words, that is.

"I do. Exactly so. I want him to propose to you, Mr Malfoy. Or vice versa. Marriage, and not simply a civil union, either. The real deal, please. In any event it's more than time enough to even the imbalance of exchange; that's clear to me as your consulting Healer. One of simplest ways of accomplishing our goal is a wedding, I wager—and perhaps also, it's the most pleasant for everyone involved. Everyone does love a wedding, don't they?"


	47. Chapter 47

"Hell, no!"

Healer Zook's practising partner, Healer Tamerlane, literally jumps where he's standing.

"No sodding way? No. Sodding. Way. Are you **mad**, man?"

Harry's off the table; Harry's at the door, his exam gown flapping about his calves, and it's a flurry; it's a blink between where he _is_ and where he _was_ and where he's_ going_—which is _out_, fucking Out of St Mungo's, thanks.

And he Apparates, and no never mind he shouldn't. He's in his own damned Room and the couch is a fucking bed, as it fucking well _should_ be, and _fuck_ Malfoy. Just fuck him.

Life's not possible, not as it is.

No—not Life, so much. Just Harry's. Just Harry's own particular one.

"Oh. For fuck's sake."

The door to his Room obligingly wards itself to triple fastnesses. 'I demand Potter' is not—is bloody not—going to be an option. Any time soon.

"Positively no. No, no, no. Damn it—no!"

Any time ever.

_No_, sir.


	48. Chapter 48

It's growing so old, this being shut out.

Cold, too. Literally. The tip-top of a nearly deserted old tower in Hogwarts in January is no fucking picnic on the French Riviera.

Draco slumps down, a slithering mass of limbs and mussed hair he's had his fingers through far too often and jellied muscles and whip-ended tendons. He's so tired, so bloody exhausted, and it's ridiculous, is what, but no end in sight. It's been hours now, and nothing. Nothing. He's not getting in, that's clear. But there's no where to go, really, except down to Slytherin, and if he goes there it's defeat, plain and simple.

Not that there was a 'win' in the picture.

He'd laughed. Fucking well laughed, right at Healer Zook's raised eyebrows.

"Marry _me_? You think Potter would marry _me_? Are you _mad_, man?"

And laughed and laughed, because it was a little hysterical, all of it.

"You think we're like that? That we've ever been like that? We shag, bloody we shag! That's all we do!"

He felt—still feels—like he can't catch his breath. That he'll never catch his breath, what with the weight on his chest. And it moves with him; it doesn't shift an inch when he paces, nor did he lose that horrid pressed-down feeling when he left Mungo's at a bolt. Chasing after Potter, who'd evidently gone and done the impossible again, the little prat.

Oh, but Draco had known. He'd not even had to wait to be told; he'd felt it. The crack in the very air, the smell of ozone, sparkling acrid, and Potter's absence, like a rent in the fabric of the universe.

But it was laughable, really. To even consider! To even think!

That was _not _what they were. They were _nothing_ like that. And all the tea in the Orient, and all the wishes at Christmas, and all his gut's strange twisting wouldn't make it so.

They were never like that.

Draco sits on the freezing cold floor, back propped against the door which won't open, idly staring at his nails, clean and perfect. Idly rubbing the sole of one accidently scuffed shoe against the other, and fiddling with his wand. It'll do no good, his wand. No wand would, not even Harry's Elder. Nor will Requirement. Harry's Requirement is just that little bit stronger and clearly, he wants no part of Draco.


	49. Chapter 49

Draco nearly cracks his head open on the floor when Harry's door swings open behind him. Inwards, for a change.

He rolls over to hands-and-knees in an undignified sprawl, blinking furiously, all thoughts of sleep fled instantly

"Bloody!"

Gathering himself off the floor with a grunt and collecting up his Transfigured tie, which he'd employed as a rather slippery sort of duvet in the wee hours of the early dawn when his repeated Warming charms appeared to have failed him, he picks his way across the threshold and over to the purple-clothed bed, kicking off his shoes on the way. The carpet might as well be made of solid frost under his socked toes; he can see the small puffs of each quiet breath as he goes.

Harry's Room is practically a cold box. The ramifications of that have Draco frowning all the more. If he's correct in his reasoning, it's Hogwarts-the-castle that's gone and allowed him entry and not Potter himself. And that's worrisome in itself.

"You all right?"

There's a dark whiff of hair sticking up; it's all he can really make out of Potter. With a tiny groan acknowledging his achy state of general frigidity Draco perches gingerly on the edge of the bed, peering at the mummy-wrapped Wizard before him for snatches of a face to examine—any small part of a face, just so he can sort out some 'feel' for Potter's state of mind. Draco's lips twist wryly—that's if the little git has any mind left to sort.

Potter seems to innately sense this intent examination; he snuggles his stupid nose into the heaped mound of pillows all that much more deeply, rendering it impossible to see any bit of him but the little quill of a cowlick. Every inch of his humped body screams 'Do not touch me!' loud and clear.

He doesn't vouchsafe Draco a reply, either. It's the cold-shoulder treatment Draco's on the butt end of, clearly.

Stymied, Draco sighs, listing sideways on the mattress. He feebly waves a set of impossibly stiff fingers, the ones that had been clutching his pathetic excuse for a makeshift coverlet. That slips away, along with his tiny hope for any chance of a civil dialogue between them.

But—at least he's in, and not out, and that's an improvement.

"Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry," he tells the lump of Wizard slowly, each syllable stretching impossibly long. "I—It wasn't _my _idea; it's that crackpot Healer's. And next time? Next time, don't fucking Apparate by yourself, Potter. At least have one of the orderlies take you Side Along. That was ridiculously risky, what you did there."

"I know that," a muffled voice replies after a long moment, grudgingly. "Shut up."

Potter doesn't explain what he knows, exactly, but the edge of the deep lavender comforter twitches a bit, one corner folding down invitingly.

"…I'm freezing," the little brat adds after a very long moment, in a sulky sort of mumble. Draco jerks his chin up from where it had nodded into reverie, nearly resting on his chest, and stares at the ruffled hank of hair, startled. "Get yourself in, will you?"

"What?" Draco's hands curl into tight fists without his even realizing. He's all at once so infuriated, so terribly, horribly frustrated he can't bear it. This_ is_ not his fault; it's not of his making—and Potter needs to bloody well understand it, Draco's position. Potter—who spent the night comfortably on a mattress and not on a sodding bloody stone floor! "…_What_?"

He's been stuck in this, wholesale, just as Potter's been. Manipulated and jerked around and fucked with right in the head. Subject to the fractured whim of a ramshackle and utterly mental old _building_, and one he's been doing his level best all along to _heal_? Where was the fairness in that? Where _was_ it?

It was a shit situation, was what it was. Made as much bloody sense as Potter blaming him for Zook's entirely ridiculous solution to an unlikely imbalance-of-magic 'issue', which probably didn't even bloody well exist! …Much. Draco didn't believe it did, at least—but that wasn't the problem here either. He wasn't a dolt—he was no fool!

And he wasn't ever, ever going to be so tremendously stupid, so damnably lame-arsed, so ignobly misguided as to ask Potter to marry him. Or ever expect Potter to ask it of_him_. Fucking well nothing of the sort!

No, he wasn't. It wasn't _like that_. It wasn't what they did, or had, or even wanted. Merlin, he was certain to his bones Potter had never wanted anything like; he'd swear it solemnly on a stack of whatever was handy and holy enough to any bloody old god passing by. And why would any fool even _think_ to complicate matters further by throwing such a huge spanner into the works? Far too much on their respective plates already, wasn't there? NEWTS, yeah? The life they had to go out and live after NEWTS were over and done? Yes, all the rest of that life, now they each had one to call his own? And Saint Potty was a fair bit damaged in the upper works already, wasn't he? Kind of mental? So…why ever make it _worse_?

_Why_ did all these fucking people insist on interfering? They'd been rubbing along well enough, hadn't they? All that time? All those months, till Potter took it into his miniscule, maggot-infested brain to snog MacMillan? And wasn't it Hogwarts which set him on that path? Rocked the fucking shagging boat he and Draco had going?

And wasn't it that same sodding Hogwarts which had planted Draco right in the position where he had to see it with his own eyes—was forced to see Potter with someone else? Make absolutely, entirely certain there was no way he could act as if it didn't matter?

Oh…it mattered. It mattered a fantastic lot, but that was immaterial, really. In the bitter end of things, right this moment—right this second, that dark blot in him wasn't of the slightest consequence, was it..no, no. It wasn't. Zook was _wrong_.

Salazar's bollocks, hoary and grey, it was pretty fucking simple, what Draco wanted. All so brilliantly easy to understand; even a moron could manage it. He wanted Potter. And he wanted the chance to see their child be born safely and to grow up safely and he wanted to be involved in that, as much as he ever could.

Was all, right there. Right _there_!

"You heard me," Potter replied snippily, and this time a nose poked out of the accumulated covers and then Draco was speared by the gaze of a pair of very green eyeballs. Staked through the chest by them for a hot sizzling second—until they rolled themselves at him, as if he were some sort of dullard and terribly thick. "_M_'not stupid. I sorted that part; hours ago, Malfoy. So get in. It's bloody cold. And you're supposed to be taking good care of me."

"Sod you, you crazy little prick," Draco shot back, narrowing his eyes to silvery slits, nasty oozing out of every pore. "For your bloody temper tantrums. Sod you for being some fucking sort of bloody diva, Potter. Act your own damned age next time, will you? And I'll get myself in when I'm good and fucking well ready, thanks—if I decide to get in at all. Fuck _off_."

"Huh." Potter, the tiny-brained wanker, is completely uncowed. He shoves a hand over his sleep-puffy face and humps his bare shoulders out of the warmth of the sheets, wriggling enough so the belly bulge shakes like a jelly. And sighs at Draco, all long-suffering and ages-old.

"You dare speak to _my_ temper, Malfoy? Mr Let's Knock Potter Off His Broom For a Lark? Well, fuck you, then, right back. Suit yourself. I'm only being practical here; you look like a fucking icicle, even more than usual. But, _please_—freeze your fucking uppity arse off, see if I care. Go on. Have at it. Stay the fuck out if you want to so much."

Draco's aware he's maybe not his usual self. It's possible that having been bowled nine pins mentally by a do-gooding medical man's bloody insane suggestion and then spending a night on a very chilly stone floor up a tower, fuming and fretting, have left him a little out of sorts. It's possible.

"…Well," he mutters, considering this, cocking his chin to do it. He's so tired his head's all swimmy, and he never thought Potter would cave this easily. It's horridly disconcerting, is what it is. "If you put it like that…"

"Oh, I do," Potter grins at him, a very weird thing to witness so early in the morning, when Potter's usually the one still completely dead to the world and sleeping the sleep of the piggish, plebian just. At least in Draco's experience. "I really do, Malfoy. But…suit yourself. You want to act the idiot, go ahead. Do it."

"What about—"

Draco's not usually this muzzy-headed. He knows to let sleeping Gryffindorks lie when it's the most prudent course available; a little something he's picked up on over the years, coping with the twats and the convoluted way they have of thinking. Or not thinking. But this is a hot-button issue, and it's only going to rear its ugly head again. Draco knows it, and he'd like to avoid Potter's future hysterics as much he can.

"Don't!" Potter glares at him, placing a spread hand very carefully over his distended abdomen. "Just…_don't_. Don't go there, Malfoy. Not yet."

It's got to be instinct. He has a cold hand slapped over Harry's warm one and he's squeezing those fingers fiercely as he pivots his used-up body under the covers and into the fabulous warm. The man creating all the warm smells brilliant to his chilled nostrils, his inner palate: a bit sweaty, a bit sour, and then whatever it is that makes him smell like Potter—that scent which always has Draco a little hungry, and a lot wanting.

"Okay," he mutters, sticking his nose and jaw square against Potter's neck. "Okay, then."

"Good. Super," Potter snaps back and shifts enough to ensure their lips are just touching. Dry lips, the both of them; tea or water probably wouldn't be a bad idea... "Fantastic."

And it is. It is.


	50. Chapter 50

"Harry, dear," Narcissa Malfoy smiles sweetly at him, her new 'default face' whenever they come in contact. "I've a little present for you. Oh...more tea?"

"Oh, yet more presents, Narcissa?" McGonagall doesn't coo exactly, but she does exhibit a very interesting expression: half disapproval over the excess of excess Narcissa has been sending Harry's way all these months and then a good dose of quite interested excitement overlaying that lemony look. "Really, I think Harry's quite well provided for now, after the last lot you Owled. How much of a wardrobe can a new infant require, really?"

"But they're all so lovely, Narcissa, the baby clothes," Madame bursts out happily, bobbling all her chins and clasping her hands gleefully on her wand. "I do declare, I'd quite forgotten how small their wee little fingers and toes are, babies. And the layouts you've sent for our Harry to use are so very fine. Such excellent stitching! The softest of fabrics!"

Harry is immensely grateful he's a cup to hide behind, even if he chokes a little on his swallow. Apparently even the most hard-headed and practical of Witches are intensely affected by the idea of babies. New babies, that is. And things to do with babies, a topic of study he has done his utmost to avoid.

"Oh, nothing like that," Mrs Malfoy smiles round the little group of four supping up tea: three ladies and one quite uneasy eighteen-year old Wizard. "At least not this time, darlings. This is more a little celebratory gift for both our boys, which is naturally why I've ventured here personally. Gift means more to the giver when it's delivered properly, does it not? But here, Harry. For you."

"…Ah?"

A small package is whisked from a robe's sleeve and presented him on the flat of one beautifully long palm; Harry notes irrelevantly he can tell exactly where Draco had inherited the shape of his hands from. They're all Black, aren't they, those fingers, that skin, those joints and the width of the palm, and they remind him achingly of Sirius's.

"Th-Thank you," he gulps unhappily and sets down his tea cup carefully to take this latest thing in the long line of things Malfoy's Mum has decided he and the bloody kid can't possibly do without. "Um. Really. Thanks. You shouldn't have."

"But of course I should," Mrs Malfoy nods at him, and Harry sees what he can only describe as a knowing twinkle in those cool blue eyes of hers. The shade was not Draco's; not at all. "You deserve it, my dear. Gifts are always lovely to receive, are they not? A boost, when you're feeling low. And I am perfectly sure not a bit of this has been particularly easy on either of you, has it? My poor darlings. So brave."

There's no good answer to that, so Harry only bobs his head slightly and drops his gaze to the present balanced unevenly in his lap.

It's a very small parcel, done up in burgundy wrapping, with an embossment of a crest on the grosgrain dark gold coloured ribbon securing it. He opens it with fingertips that tremble slightly. It's the weekend again and Malfoy's down the stables with Hagrid otherwise he'd be present, too, making polite with a triad of ladies.

'Ladies' seem to have invaded Harry's life, recently.

Hermione and Parkinson, for two. Who had knocked Harry and Draco both for a total loop by organizing what had to be the first-ever Hogwarts official baby shower. At least Harry believed that was what the occasion was meant to be, when his dazed and alarmed eyes took in the sight of all four House tables shoved together in the Great Hall and a whopping raft of chattering Witches milling about, plus lashings of decorative bunting, little tea cakes and gifts. More gifts! Piles of them!

Draco's face: what a picture! But he'd recovered soon enough and been his glib, well-spoken self, nodding that fair head left and right and marvelling over a vast assortment of stuff. Adroitly. As if he meant a word of it.

Stuff! Madame Pomfrey had complained bitterly of it later, saying the storage closet in the Infirmary had required to be enlarged thrice over already and where was she to put all this latest horde of rattles and whatnot? And still seemed inordinately pleased, withal, as if Harry and Draco had done something immensely good by having the ill fortune to be blessed with child.

His hand slipped to his swollen stomach instantly. Ill? Well…

_Molly_. Mrs Molly Weasley had come, too, but on a different day, descending upon Gryffindor Commons one late afternoon quite unexpectedly and overwhelming an unsuspecting Harry with a huge pile of hand-me-downs and a newly knitted infant-sized duvet in Harry's not-so-secretly new favourite hue: purple. With lime-green sateen piping about the edges, for Merlin's sake!

"The little darlings do so adore to teethe on it, Harry," she'd chuckled, patting his enormous baby bump all too familiarly. "The sateen. At least in my experience! And you must agree, I certainly do have quite a lot of experience!"

She'd demanded Malfoy's presence, too, later on, which had led to one of the more uneasy social occasions Harry had ever the foul luck to preside over—one of the very few 'occasions' he'd presided over outside of DA meetings, for that matter!—and proceeded to beat Harry-and-company's ear off for two hours straight about the intricacies of child rearing and various horrible minutia attendant thereof. It had all been a bit shocking, there at the very end of it, when she'd capped off her visit by sweeping a vastly startled Slytherin into a hearty embrace before tripping off to visit with Headmistress.

Malfoy had been shocked to the core, certainly. He'd literally staggered where he was standing. And it gave Harry hiccup-giggles to recall what Molly's 'stunner' of a hug had done to his poor face, for hours after.

But, women. _Witches_. They seemed to all become total nutters over kids. Harry shuddered; he sincerely hoped he wouldn't turn out like that, a totally twee ninny, obsessed with matching booties to bonnets and so forth. There were limits; he's have to top himself first.

"Harry? What are you waiting for?" Pomfrey prompted him gently, when he only stared unblinking at the latest offering to the altar of the Infant, one hand on the box, one hand resting quietly on his abdomen. "Open it!"

"I—um," Harry hesitated. "Erm, thank you, Mrs Malfoy. Again. But you've given me so much al—"

"Nonsense, Harry dear," Mrs Malfoy was firm about it. "This is nothing much—and besides, this is a little something solely for you and my son. A trinket, of sorts. But practical, naturally. Old Malfoy Black magic, actually. I only hope you two boys will have the good sense to wear them."

"…Wear them?" Harry met her fond gaze, bewildered. "It-this, it's something for _us_, then?"

'Us'?

_Us_ was a term Harry shied away from, like a unbroken hippogriff shied away from a halter. It gave him the willies, flat out. Had his nape hair rising up as if electrified. But then Malfoy had held good to his promise, all these weeks. Half through February already and not a word in relation to any sort of wedding had passed through his well-formed lips, nor even been hinted at.

Harry had been watching for it, obsessively. He _knew_. Sodding hell, he'd been watching _Malfoy_, honestly. Also obsessively. More so than ever, and suspiciously as Sixth.

But…not for the same reasons, quite. If he was honest with himself, he'd admit that.

"And how are your marriage plans progressing, Mr Potter?" Healer Zook had demanded of Harry just last week, and ever so genially, as if it were a given. He seemed to be entirely uncaring that Harry had thrown such a massive strop at his partner-in-practise, Healer Tamerlane, but a week before that. "I'll expect to be seeing an invite by Owl soon enough, surely? Please don't forget to include my plus-one," he added jovially.

"We're not—repeat not—being married!" Harry had snarled, and Zook had the temerity to grin at him, tutting. "_Ever_."

"Really, now. Hmm."

"We're not!" Harry had insisted, his fists tightening on his too-thin hospital wrapper. Which had been switched out the visit before for the extra-extra large size, a change he'd accepted with a discontented sneer. Never in his life had he weighed so much; never in his life had he been so awkward in his body, every hour of the day. Never in his life had he needed—could not live without—a warm body wrapped about him every night, and a stupid sneering bloke by his side all the day long. It was pathetic, achingly so. "Don't even ask it of us, Healer. Not going to happen."

"Hmm." Zook had only given him an unctuous little nod. And smiled, all terribly white professional teeth flashing. "So I see. Well, that's all right too, then, Mr Potter. We have our ways to go about coping with that, medically; my associates and I have certainly encountered difficult patients before now. Not to fear. Put your mind at ease, please."

"**_I_**?!" Harry gasped, livid. "I. Am. _Not_. Difficult! Far from it!"

"No, no, of course not, son. Never think it," Healer had soothed him avuncularly, a mannerism which had set Harry's own teeth right on edge. "As I said, there are ways around the issue, of course. Was the best of the solutions for your Mr Malfoy's, er, _issue_, that," he grimaced, "so it's a bit of pity you two aren't willing to be cooperative and simply nip our issues in the bud. Still, I'm sure we can all overcome the lack, all the same. Now. About your blood sugar levels? Have you been eating your chocolate? Has your Mr Malfoy?"

Harry had no idea if Malfoy was eating his chocolate. No—that wasn't true. He did know, as he knew pretty much everything Malfoy got up to, as they were joined at the bloody hip, mostly. Requirement.

_Requirement_.

"No," he replied shortly. "At least, not enough. His appetite's not what it was, either. Uh…Healer?"

Zook smiled at him, terribly attentive, and more than a little too knowing. Harry was struck by it; he know that expression, that demeanour. Man was probably a Slytherin, once. He'd bet his poor languishing broom on it. Same smirk as Malfoy, the wanker.

"Yes, Mr Potter? A question?"

"Exactly." Harry paused, gathering his thoughts, for they were nebulous and scattered and just reluctantly coming together. And he'd not wanted to think of it particularly much. It'd been generally better not, really, but there it was.

"...Yes?"

"Erm…er? Exactly what _are_ the effects on the other father, Healer? From a pregnancy? And what _is_ it a baby does for us that's so bloody special? I've asked and asked, but no one seems to be able to explain."


	51. Chapter 51

"Right, _no_, Healer," Draco scrubbed a hand across bloodshot eyes and glared half-heartedly at his physician. "We're not. I'm not. _He's_ not. End of story, alright? Don't ask me that again, because you'll always receive the same damn answer, okay? Okay, then. Now, what, exactly, do we do about this? It can't go on as it is; I've things to accomplish. I can't afford to be forever dragging about like a half-dead Thestral. And surely you've had other Wizards in the same position? Single fathers? Widowers? I simply can't accept we would need to reinvent not only the wheel but the whole entire carriage to work around this! That's purely absurd."

"Absurd, is it? Well, Mr Malfoy, you can begin by wearing what Mrs Malfoy has given you. That might be useful." Healer curled the corner of an upper lip at him, as Draco's eyes widened. "No need for any reinvention there. It's all been done for you already."

"Par—?" Draco swallowed hard. "You mean _my _mother—she?"

"Ahem, yes." Healer instantly took on a grave expression, well suited to the touch of silvery hair at his temples. "She has been in touch with me, Mr Malfoy, quite recently. Purely on a confidential basis, of course, but she _is _concerned. She wished to pass on certain information strictly for our purposes of care—to wit, that she'd invoked the ancient House of Black's Procreant Rune. And promptly given it over to you two, in the form of the original Black bracelets. In light of that, Mr Malfoy, I'd advise you and Mr Potter to don your runic jewelry as soon as may be, and that would be the sooner, the better. It would be most sensible course of action. Wouldn't you agree?"

"What?" Draco sat up, startled. Which was an effort, as he was quite wrung dry, lately. "Procreant? I thought those were just some old general protective ones she'd pulled from the vaults. Malfoy in provenance, maybe. You say they're House of Black?"

"Precisely so, Mr Malfoy," Healer nodded, sitting back behind his expansive desk. "Pictish silver, Goblin mined, and the garnets are cabochon cut." The cursory exam had concluded just as Draco had expected it would—pretty dire, cheers—and, as this time Draco had come alone, without Potter, and specifically to speak to Healer, he'd been given the full office treatment: ushered in and offered tea and biscuits, and finally a chance to gather his personal dignity about him and actually think like a real Slytherin instead of only reacting like a booby Gryff. "The inscription's some modified form of the Pryderian tongue, I should say. In an event, they're at least a thousand years old, perhaps a great deal more. And the Wizards of the House of Black have never been slouches, certainly not when it comes to their crafting talent, specially in runes and charms. I should think they'd be just the ticket at the moment, your pretty little bracelets. As the two of you boys," he leant forward to glare across a pile of file folders, "insist on being contrary."

"Yes, well," Draco growled sulkily. "It's not that we're contrary. It's that it's nonsensical to expect it. Us being married."

"And why_ is_ that, Mr Malfoy?" Healer jumped on Draco's statement like a starving Nundu on a fresh dik-dik carcasse. "Why _is_ it both you and Mr Potter insist there's nothing between you but sex and this child? Has it always been this way? Do neither of you care for each other beyond that?"

"Oi!"

Draco opened his mouth immediately—to reply with what, though, he wasn't quite certain. 'Care', was it? Of course he cared; he wasn't one of those plonkers who fucked a bloke and bolted. Or rather—he was no longer one of those plonkers. Potter had changed that for him. Potter he could deal with, cope with, manage to connect with…mostly. Well, when Potter deigned to be present in Draco's world, the real one. And…even when he didn't quite, sometimes.

"…Mr Malfoy?" Healer murmured gently. "What say you?"

"…No," Draco allowed, eventually, his mind turning over what was fundamentally a very intrusive personal question. "No." Which he somehow couldn't summon the energy to be too much ticked off over, sadly. Which he probably should've been asking himself a rather long while before. But hadn't. "That's not it. Not really. It's not like that, either."

"Then what, Mr Malfoy? Speak to me, please. This is your health at stake here." Healer sat completely forward, both capable hands planted flat on his blotter. "This is an _issue_."

"You know, Healer?" Draco slumped back against the squabs of his chair. "I really hate that word—'issue'? I really, really dislike it. I abhor it, to be brutal. So? Could we please not refer to Potter's and my problems as 'issues', in the future? I'm finding it highly offen—"

Healer had clearly not been born yesterday, nor at night; he was in no way diverted by Draco's hopeful tangent. He narrowed his eyes behind his spectacle rims and persisted. But kindly.

"Mr Malfoy. Mr Malfoy, _focus_. Answer my question. Those bracelets your mother gave you are very well and good, but we've a root problem here that doesn't seem to have any hope of self-resolution. Tell me what's going on between you and Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy, or there's no way I can possibly help you to the absolute best of my not inconsiderable ability. To be _brutal_, Mr Malfoy," he went on, dry as dust but with some force, "my professional time and expertise are very dear and it is you who is paying for it, whether your lovely mother writes the draughts out or no. Thus, it makes no sense for you _not _to employ your investment wisely, does it? Now—tell me, please. I need to the information. Facts, Mr Malfoy. There is no room for adolescent pride in a Healer's office. Nor subterfuge."

"Oh, Merlin," Draco sighed, resigned. "All right, then, sorry. I didn't mean—right. But…there's nothing 'going on', see? Not like you seem to be thinking there is. This isn't some bloody soap opera here; we're not some stupid star-crossed couple, either. And look here, I keep saying this, it feels like, over and over again till I'm blue, but it's not been like that, ever. Not between us. Potter and I hooked up solely because we knew each other from way back, and we found we were at loose ends, alright? There was…there was an attraction, okay? A quite strong sexual attraction, actually, and we happened to follow through on it. I'm not exactly a shabby looker, Healer, and he's fit for a scrawny little half-pint, alright? At least, _I_ find him so—probably have had for a while now; I don't know. Whatever; he's a very nice figure on him and his eyes aren't so bad, either. But it's just that—it's nothing complicated. He's not too hard to wake up to in bed of a morning and I'm accustomed to him, is all. I know him, Potter."

"Hmm…so, you say you know him, Mr Malfoy?" Healer regarded Draco levelly. "Does that happen to mean also that you trust him?"

"Trust him—Harry?" Draco gave a startled yelp of a stifled laugh. "What? Well, certainly, Healer! Why wouldn't I? He's a sodding hero, isn't he? Hero of the Wizard World, last I looked. Er—is there some point to all this, because I've a schedule to ke—"

"Mr Malfoy, if you trust him, and you're attracted to him, _and_ you have some inkling as to what his character is," Healer Zook ticked off these points by folding his fingers down, one by one. "Then why, may I ask, do you not seek commitment with him? Is it that Mr Potter is known for, er, ahem," the man looked briefly uncomfortable. "I mean to say, is he known for his infidelitous nature? Does he, as they say, sleep around?"

_MacMillan_.

Draco snapped his teeth in fury and leapt to his feet, all thoughts of exhaustion fled. He'd his wand trained on Zook's irritatingly artlessly enquiring face before he'd even realized he slipped it from its holster.

"No! No, he does **_not_**, alright? He may've tried it on once, but that was a one-off. And I put a stop to it, yeah? Never even happened! And—**and**, I cannot even fathom why this is any of your business, Healer Zook. It's _not_ what I was looking for when I came here this morning and I really would appreciate it if you could keep your mind out of the sodding gutter and right _on _what it is I'm asking of you! I need some help—I _need_ a solution. And I don't need you or anyone else forcing Harry into anything he doesn't choose! Hasn't he bloody done enough for us already—_hasn't he_? So lay off him—and _me_—and employ all that bloody expensive expertise of yours I'm paying for to keep me on my feet a little longer, will you? Because that's_ I_ need most right now. I need to be there and I can't do it, fuck my life, not as I am now, and why you ever had to bring that my attention I don't know; I was perfectly well, but you've gone and screwed me over, haven't you, and now you must—just—help—**hah**!"

Out of breath, abruptly, and seeing a wave of reddish-black encroaching his vision on all sides, Draco stumbled, nearly knocking over his chair. The tea cup he'd been holding had fallen and shattered long since; he'd not even noted it. His wand trembled in his grip; he tightened his fingers on it convulsively.

"—me!"

"**Mr Malfoy**! Mr Malfoy, calm yourself!" Healer Zook was by his side, grabbing at his elbow and upper arm and easing him down onto the still-wobbly chair in an instant. "Calm yourself. Deep breaths now, in and out. In and out. Head down, there. Between your knees, Mr Malfoy—there's a good man. Breathe—just so, just like that. Good chap—that's it. Let's put that wand of yours away, too, shall we? Good chap—"

"No! I can't—this isn't—" Draco squawked harshly, his own voice a reedy cut-up mockery of itself, even to his own ears. "Don't—don't tell—Harry…abo—" Which were pressed flat as he clenched his kneecaps together, in a futile attempt at smashing the intense buzz in his head straight out of existence. "Why can't—why can't—you just—help me? _Why_?"

"Ah! No, no fainting, please! Mr Malfoy—oh! Do belt up—er! Oh—Harold? Harold!"

Draco had detected a click, a faint one. Far away and off to the side. As if a door had opened, discreetly.

"Oh—_brilliant_. Harold, darling, a hand here, will y—"


	52. Chapter 52

Harry felt it like a jolt up his spine: one moment he was perfectly as usual, weary but somewhat attentive in Muggle Studies, the next there was a cold pit developing in the very centre of his stomach and spreading fast.

He sat straight up, gasping, blanching, and dropped his quill.

"Mate? Harry?"

Ron was off his side of the bench in a flash and kneeling by Harry's side, knocking a comfortingly broad shoulder into him.

"Harry? _Harry_. What's wrong, mate? Talk to me! Is it the baby?"

Harry blinked, feeling his fingers and toes curl at the interminable cold filling him, feeling the hairs on his skin stand up and freeze—feeling the whole entire world ice over, frigid and blue-grey and dull. "Nuh…" he managed, his hand planted protectively over that part of him. The new one. "Nh!"

No—this pain was centred well above that place. And it wasn't a pain, so much, as simply _cold_. The cold of shock, of fear—of ripped-raw terror. His lips curled back of their own volition as he grimaced at it, the 'fight' part of him, the Gryffindor, finally kicking in.

"Harry? Harry! Do you need Pomfrey? I'll fetch her—"

"No…no. Don't, Ron, not yet," Harry gathered himself to beg his friend, a monumental effort with his tongue frozen solid, his lips as stiff as they were. "Headmistress…find her. Get McGonagall for me. Something's happened to Malfoy—I know it."

"Har—"

"Go! Now, Ron—just go! It's important!"

"But, mate!" Ron, casting a frantic look at Harry, hesitated. "I can't just—"

"Ple—"

"No!" A female voice at Harry's back interjected fiercely. "_No_, Weasley! You go on, get out of here, scram. Do what Potter wants, won't you? I'll stay with him. I'll watch over him for you. He'll be all right—I'll make sure of it."

"But I—but you—oh, _fuck_ me! Going!" Ron flung up his broad hands, dithered for one second longer and at Harry's anguished stare, fled as if all four winds were carrying him, pell-mell out the door and skidding towards the upper stories.

"Potter?"

Harry became aware of that same female voice—he knew it pretty well these days, unfortunately—nagging at him.

"Potter! Pay attention!"

"Er? Eh?" He turned his head, feeling as if it might just snap, his skin was so stiff—so cold. Oh, fuck, he was colder than an icecap, an ice lolly, a—

"Where's Draco—Potter!" Parkinson demanded of him, from where she was kneeling. "Where's Draco today? Do you know?"

"No, no, no," Harry moaned, curling in on himself. If he didn't he was afraid the baby would freeze, too. "No!"

"You don't?" Parkinson sounded shocked. "But he always tells—"

"**NO**!" Harry roared, uncurling, snapping spine straight again with a howl and snarl. "I know—I do know. Fuck this, I don't what's happening—he's in Town. He went to Mungo's; I dunno why. God's bloody **fuck**, Pansy—get him back!"

"Mr Potter, language!"

McGonagall was abruptly right there, standing over him, a hand going protectively to his nape. "Gather yourself up, Harry—hold on. I'm here—we're all here for you. What can we do?"

"Malfoy. Draco. I need _Malfoy_. Something's wrong, and I need him. Get me there, Minerva—make it happen!"

"Mate, mate," Ron crooned, and Harry was up and off the bench at last, moving. "I'll take you, right now, I promise. Headmistress, can we Apparate?"

"Go ahead—please Merlin, do go ahead, dear," McGonagall waved her wand, and Hogwarts-the-Castle hummed about them, high and deep, almost moaning. "It's highly unusual, but in these circumstances—oh, do be careful, boys!"

"Mungo's!" Ron's voice was solid and stead and sure. Harry leaned into him, his hand never leaving his belly, never leaving his baby, curled tight and pressing in deeply, as he could reach right on through and make it know it was all right—

All right—**NO**. It wasn't. It so _wasn't_.

And there was that pitch Harry had been hearing, deep in his brain this whole time. A keening, as if something—something horrible had happened. Wards were ripped asunder, charms frayed to cinders—a world was in danger.

"Now, Harry." And his best mate was a solid mass by his side, warm as nothing was warm inside Harry, but still not Malfoy. Harry needed Malfoy, right now. "We're going no—"

And they did.


	53. Chapter 53

"Harry. Harry! We're here. It's all right, we're here. I'm taking you to him, right now—"

"Mr Weasley! Oh, this way—oh, but it's against all regul—the lift, it's—"

"**Now**, woman! I don't care how, but now! Don't you see? This _is _Harry Potter, here!"

Ron's roaring, and Harry's nearly a dead weight against the vibration of his chest, but supported. It's a little better, the cold. He thinks it might be a little better…

He's thawing.

"Harry," and this is Ron, and this is softly, for his ears alone, as they're walking, trotting, half-stumbling along. "Harry, I know what it is to lose—it's not like that, I know it's not like that. It isn't, this time. He's an arse, isn't he? Too damned stubborn to die. And you'd know, wouldn't you? Of course you'd know, you're _Harry_. Harry, mate, we're almost—"

And there's a pale white Malfoy on a pale white bed, but an awake one.

"There. My compliments."

And he's released by Ron, and there's a push, maybe, at the base of his spine, and a very awkward scramble. It's all akimbo, arms and legs shifting and then Draco's wrapping arms and shins and thighs around Harry's parts as they fall apart and saying things. Warm, hot things. Nonsense, all of it.

Things like 'Idiot!' and "Of course I was all right,' and 'God and Merlin above, is that _Weasley_?' but the cold's gone.

The cold's gone.

"Don't," Harry growls. "Don't do that. Not ever again, don't do that."

"…No." And he looks up to see Malfoy's face is all funny looking, and his eyes are liquid. Like pools of silver water and so, so deep, and they've something to say and Harry's trying to hear and it's—

"Can you just?" Malfoy mutters, diving his nose in Harry's hair, hiding those eyes that said something—something?

"Eh?"

"Can you just stay? I'll be out of here soon, I promise. It's nothing; some weird chemical imbalance—hah! Should've listened to old Pomfrey, right? Eaten my choc—Harry, stay a little?"

"Oh…" And he's just like a balloon with no air; he's flat out with the aftermath of shock. But he's not cold, not any longer. Not deep, tucked in Draco's hospital bed as he is and Ron's already gone, gone somewhere. "Oh, fuck, _Draco_."

It's a hard road, and he's not chosen it, but it's there.

"_Draco_."

"You'll stay, then?"

"Yes." Harry swallows, and tugs fretfully at the thin hospital coverlet. "Jeezus, yes." Why is it they are so very thin in weave he's never understood. Abhorred it, but_ never _understood. "Yes, and please, and give me some of that, wanker."

Harry means the blankets, and they're sparse. Draco's twitching them over the both of them, instantly, just the same. Seems all right. Seems...all right.

There's a little silence, and then he feels Malfoy grinning into his hair.

"Selfish."


	54. Chapter 54

"Well. They're certainly gaudy enough, aren't they?"

The Black Bracelets are adorning two separate wrists and Harry takes a moment to examine them from his perch next to Malfoy on their bed.

"Huh," he bobs his chin in acknowledgement of that claim though there's a little piece of him that rather likes them. His is wide enough to bump up against the knobby bone of his joint but it fits well enough and the carvings impressed upon the polished silver are intricate. Smooth rounded stones the colour of old dried blood stud the surface; they're warm when he lays a curious finger on them. "Could be worse, though."

"Oi?" Malfoy lets that go, turning his head and peering at Harry sideways. "Weasley did all right by you with that Side-Along yesterday? Nothing's Splinched, is it?"

That surprises an amused little snort out of Harry and his lips twitch. "I'd have thought you would have been able to tell that already. Didn't you pretty much examine all of me in Mungo's, _Healer_ Malfoy?"

"Hardly!" Malfoy snorts in return. "And don't call me that. I don't even know if I—"

"You'd make a good one, though," Harry interrupts quickly. "A Healer. And that wanker Zook reminds me of you, the git. Always trying to get one over on me, one way or another. You should think about it, though. Seriously. You like the revising end of it well enough—much more than us normal people do, that's certain."

A quick flush appears on his companion's far too well-shaped cheekbones and across the bridge of his pointy nose, painting him pink. His eyes squinch up, narrowing suspiciously to focus on Harry's knowing little grin. The one he can't seem to help, because fucking in a Mungo's A&E bed had been a bit shocking and a lot hot, and he'd not suspected Draco Malfoy would flout convention quite that way.

"…Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Um, right, well…hey?" Malfoy has an arm round his waist and he's all at once budging a hip up against Harry's padded one. "Does that mean I may practise examining you again, Potter? Lay back down, then. Let me see to it."

Harry's overbalanced suddenly by a deft lean-and-yank maneuver and finds himself flat on his back in the rumpled bed. "Hey!" he yelps, but it's tinged with laughter. "Greedy tosser!"

And relief. Blessed relief.

"No," Malfoy remarks casually, as if there's not a thing out of the usual. "Nothing like that. Just—just preparing you properly for an internal probe, Mr Potter. Past time for your daily injection, isn't it? If you'd be so kind as to—?"

"Yes, Healer?" Harry drawls, in a fair imitation of a Malfoy. He blinks up the ancient arched ribs of the turret top, for their violet bed has no canopy, and smiles at it, the structure. It pleases him, no end, to be returned again to his Room. "And what is it I may do for you?"

Draco growls against the side of Harry's head, right by his temple. Slips a tongue to Harry's scar for an instant.

"Foolish prat."

Fingertips crawl down his chest and the swell of his belly as Draco shoves Harry gently over on his one side, slotting long legs, lean hips and trim torso and a very much interested cock against him with alacrity. "All right?" asks the quiet voice behind his ear. Malfoy's apparently fascinated with Harry's hair; he sticks his nose in it often enough and he likes to mess with it whenever he gets the chance, too.

"Um," Harry hums, shifting himself in accordance, and that cock goes from throbbing hotly against the crack of his arse cheeks to sliding into him, smooth as silk, smooth as polished silver. "Oh…oh! Yes—like that! Just….like…that….ah!"

"Harry, Harry," his lover groans, and plunges the tip of that most excellent prick of his right square on Harry's spot. "_Harry_…."

They quiver together, skin brushing skin, lips parted in tiny gasps, and Harry arches his neck to have it gnawed on, as they both like the effect of that so very much and Draco's ace at leaving the perfect love bites everywhere his mouth goes on Harry's body, every time.

It all begins to blur together, yesterday's shocking Mungo's fuck and this moment's shagging, and Harry closes his eyes and rides the wave of it. It's pure pleasure, having that prick inside him, sure and sturdy and in elegant motion. So sweet his fingers curl down on Malfoy's hard forearm and brush the cool weight of the bracelet that matches his exactly. So brilliant he jerks into an easy ejaculation almost before he realizes it's happening, a muffled grunt in his ear informing him Draco's going, too—'Ungh, 'Arry!'—that it's a shared ride, this one.

But. They're _not_ being married. They've agreed on it, privately, and no bloody specialist Healer on a misguided mission will be able to force them to the altar, either. It's too soon, and it's too much to wrap their heads about, yet.

And really—this is just about sodding super, what it is they've got already.

Harry's pretty certain of it, at least.


	55. Chapter 55

Draco's definition of 'pain' has expanded exponentially, in the areas where 'pain' as such impacts Potter.

Harry.

It's _Harry_. He calls him Potter now to tease, mainly, or to be contrary, but it's really_Harry_. It's how Draco thinks of him privately, it's what he cries out when he comes, it's the first name to pop into his head when there's something amusing, or shocking, or just plain odd occurring which Draco feels the urge to relate to _someone_. Harry's the direction Draco's hand always goes when he's reaching out…to _someone_. He doesn't do it often but when he does it's only ever one certain someone he needs to touch.

It's Harry. The someone.

Damn Healer Zook for sticking concepts into his brain he'd much rather not consider too deeply. Blast the man as well for mentioning the word 'care' so carelessly. Dropping it like a bomb, so it detonates endlessly later, setting off interior landslides, rocking foundations. Of course Draco cares; he _cares_ endlessly, but it's so much the better to avoid thinking too deeply on how much.

But…now that he's thinking?

It's every concession Draco can make and stay sane and even the ones that will likely drive him 'round the twist. It's closing his eyes quite deliberately to the thought of MacMillan and others like him, just waiting in the wings, the vultures. Oh, he'll spike their bloody guns if he must, but he doesn't need make it obvious, does he? Well, not as obvious as he has done, before.

And it's making do with silly runic jewelry for the sake of Harry's relieved grin when Draco blithely agrees that 'no, marriage is a stupid idea' and then goes on to vow idiotically he'll be arsed if he'll do it just because some old chap in a white coat says they have to.

What a fucking vile and obvious lie that was! If Harry weren't so bloody busy being the world's most powerful pregnant Wizard, maybe he'd have noticed. Though maybe not. Draco's got a fine forked tongue on him, damn it, and he knows how to use it.

Draco knows Harry hasn't. Noticed a bleeding thing. And for his part, he's not saying a word to set the record straight, more fool him. No point to it, is there? Not now, not yet. He can put that off for later, he can delay it as far out as he must, if he must.

It's the creepy awareness of probable future situational instances of agony. Say, for instance, if he goes home to the Manor at Easter hols and happens to open the door to the second study and then sees Harry's not in it, puttering about, he'll be mortified to the point of tears. This, when Draco Malfoy cries for no one, ever, not again. He'll cry then—it's coming.

It's the dark blot, the throbbing awareness it was never only 'fun', the same nebulous but clamouring impulse that had driven Draco to try it on with Harry in the first place, emboldened by nothing more than a passing laugh, a maybe-flirtatious glance from green eyes. Call it a whim, but it hadn't been. So, yes, he'd pulled, fuelled by hidden laughter—and Harry had risen to the bait. Wonderful. Marvellous. And look where it gotten him?

Oh, but it's still coming, and there's no avoiding it.

It's near the end of Harry's term; Draco knows this. Can sense it, as he senses minor mood changes and major hormonal swings and when it is Harry actually wakes up in the mornings—the exact moment, just as he knows when Harry slides into a restless sleep in the night. It's being exactly attuned to _him_, this short, stubborn, baby-filled wonder with a cocky attitude and a raft of gaps in his psyche. It's wanting desperately to be the one who fills the gaps, to be that one other who completes him. Harry.

He loves. Draco would much rather not, though.

He loves, and the pain factor has thus logically increased exponentially. It flows both ways, and no wonder. It's absurd, and everyone who has no clue would laugh their arses right off if they knew how deep he's in, but it's so. And there's nothing left to do about it but wait. See how it turns out, and then do something about it then.

It's coming, the day the baby finally comes out of Harry, and Draco fears it. All it will bring, all the changes ringing in. Such a settled life he's had, these months, in a way—so peaceful. He's gone and grown stupidly accustomed, sod him.

When the baby comes, Harry won't need Draco, so much. He won't be dependent on a potion, or driven by the weird processes of male fertility. _He _won't require. Require.

Such a cold, hard word, such an empty state, 'requirement', as defined. Such a bitter loss, when it ends, this Requirement.

If it ends, and that's the key, isn't? Draco's not a coward. He works with Thestrals, doesn't he? And he does cry, yes, pretty often. Ostensibly it's for the potion, sure, but really—it's for Harry. Same as he sweats and he bleeds and he wanks.

If Harry weren't so occupied with literally contemplating his stretched-out navel, maybe he'd sort out that his fellow shagger and the father of his baby was already as wed and bound and married as ever could be. To Harry.

Maybe Harry would puzzle out the obvious: that _he _was already as labyrinthine deep in as Draco was? But Draco doesn't believe Harry's able, not yet. There's only so much revelation a body can take without running screaming and Harry's just too fucking pregnant to run anywhere near fast as he used to. The little git is not dumb, not at all, and he's quite observant, yes, but maybe it's also that Hogwarts is doing Harry another 'favour'? Mayhap the castle's just as aware as Draco is that Harry Potter has been handicapped since the moment the Dark Lord AK'd his parents and deprived him of any point of reference until he happened to stumble upon the teeming lot of Weasleys?

Oh, he'd come across Draco first, of course, but Draco had fumbled it, hadn't he? Well, he'd not be doing that again, no. He wasn't eleven anymore. He was eighteen, nearly nineteen, and he'd learnt a few things just surviving long enough to achieve his majority. A snitch can be coaxed just as well as it can be chased and bullied and often with far superior result, right?

Draco's never going into politics like his father did but it's not a crime to understand the art of influence, is it?

Still, maybe Hogwarts is lending Harry some sort of defense? A moat made 'round his heart, a perimeter wall built more to keep the little soft bits of Harry from spilling out than to prevent any intruder from reaching in and simply taking. Storming him, as the Horcrux had once, and thus taking Harry over.

Draco's been engaged in quite of lot of thinking, lately. God, but he hates and despises bloody introspection, for all it has its uses. It pains him something awful, really. But—there it is.

There's a reason, a very sound one, why Harry's made his own Room, and why it's so far up in the sky. There's likely a reason, too, why a mass of magical rocks-and-beams has been more than inclined to let Harry have his way in that. There's safety in a nest that's more of an aerie. Harry can fly if he needs, and he can survey all approaches. And anyone who does want to enter had better be fucking well willing to put forth the effort, eh?

No, it's not Harry being selfish, or barmy, or damaged, canny little wanker he really is. It's Harry, keeping himself alive and intact in case the world needs him again. It's what heroes do in their off times, isn't it? Achilles in his tent and all that.

And Harry's not become a coward either—far from it, the idiot; a little healthy fear was a bloody fine thing and Harry so obviously didn't have a dram of it sparking in his blood, the bugger—but Draco knows every time the git wakes up in the night, his messy dark head spinning with horribly logical possibilities. Risky business, having a baby when a body's not really meant to. Zook's spot on. Harry's well aware he could die from it, the baby could die—fuck, Draco could die, too, if the worst happened. And not simply due to some stupid magical imbalance, either. He'd just want to.

Bit of an abyss, isn't it? Like flying one's broom over an active volcano—or maybe tangling with a Muggle hellycopter. An abyss of common sense, that is, because no person in his right and proper mind would choose to love a hero. Insane sort of idea, that.

It's a crying shame, Draco thinks; he's just as mental as Harry is, in his own way. A disgrace to his Slytherins, really.

For all that, Draco's all right. He's pretty sure he's all right. Anxiety's not so bad if one acknowledges it's lurking there and knows what to do about it. Every day Draco's still breathing when he's waking and Harry's still waking right in his arms. Where he's supposed to be; where Draco will honestly do absolutely anything and everything to keep him. And that probably will translate to not leaving Harry go, later on, after the kid is born, after the dust has settled, and Harry's Room is become Harry-and-the-Baby's Room. There will probably be some hellacious, nasty, evil, rotten rows in Draco's future. However?

It'll stay Draco's Room, too. Yes, it will. He'll never allow it to be anything other, just as he'll never allow any other Wizard or Witch to come between them. He will murder in cold blood—for Harry. He will sell his immortal soul down the pike—for Harry.

He'll even keep his yap shut and not say aloud what he's been contemplating—for Harry. Only for Harry.

He's possessive, yes, alright. Draco's not an idiot, he's sorted out at least some of what compels him to act the way he acts, to feel the way he feels. Again, fairly simple. He's obsessively territorial when it comes to Harry Potter and that's it. That's _his_ kid and _his_hero and _his _burden to carry.

He wants it all, can taste how much he wants it every time their mouths meet, can feel the 'boom' of it reverberating down his veins every time he comes so sweetly buried inside Harry's gorgeous bum. Can smell it and see it and touch it, hold it fast to him. Can keep it, because he's who he is; Draco Malfoy _is_ who he's become. He's earned it. In a way. No. More he's earning it.

_He _Requires. Draco does. Good thing fucking Hogwarts seems to sense that part, too.


	56. Chapter 56

"Right, I'm fooling myself, aren't I? He'll never change. Oh! Good morning, Madame."

When Harry opens his Room's door, it's conveniently enough facing the Infirmary one. He closes his own and opens that one instead, poking his head in.

"Good morning, Harry dear," Madame Pomfrey chirps, looking up from the tray of bandages she's sorting. "And how are you keeping today, dear?"

"Well enough, I guess," Harry shrugs. "I've come for my—"

"Potion's in the little fridge, dear," Pomfrey sings out, same as always, moving off to spell fresh sheets onto a series of cots. "And how is Mr Malfoy faring today?"

"He's already out and about, Madame Pomfrey," Harry replies placidly, head muffled by the stacks and stacks of stoppered vials of potions in the little cool box. "Git," he adds, purely for his own satisfaction. He doesn't feel placid at all. "Obstinate arse." Aloud he tells Madame's broad back, "He's gone down to the stables again. Hagrid's got a mare foaling."

"Hmmm, it_ is_ that time again, dear, isn't it?" Pomfrey swings about, her task complete, and affixes Harry with a bright-eyed stare. A very shrewd one. He knows she sees the bruises under his eyes from the lack of sleep and the bruises on his throat from Draco's lips. Of the two he likes the latter better: it's a pain he chooses, unlike the pains and aches garnered from walking around a billion years pregnant and weighing five tonnes.

"For Mother Nature to remind us all spring is around the corner, I mean," Pomfrey goes on cheerily. Harry does not scowl. He doesn't. Okay—maybe his lip twitches but Pomfrey affects not to notice. "You as well, dear. It'll be soon enough now, won't it? What does Healer Zook have to say lately? Do sit and have a cuppa, won't you? And Mrs Malfoy's sent you a few more parcels, of course, by Owl. A note to her saying your thanks wouldn't come amiss, Harry. Such a very generous grandmother she's making of herself, isn't she? Can't imagine how she'll be when the baby comes! Ah, well, I suppose that's only to be expected. Do you know how many occasions I had your Mr Malfoy up here with toothache when you two were still small? So many sweets that woman sent him!"

Harry resigns himself to the usual Saturday morning ritual. It's the one day of the week Draco's already well out of bed before him and he's on his own. Well, he's says that, but he isn't really. Draco's organized him into taking tea with Pomfrey, the sly git, and then inevitably Parkinson or Ron and Hermione will turn up and Harry will find himself herded about wherever he goes and kept an eye on.

He touches his bracelet. It's warm. The git's all right; no Thestral has kicked his bloody arrogant head in yet.

Madame natters away at him, eventually setting down her cup to wave a wand and summon the latest from Mrs Malfoy. Harry concedes sufficient to pen a quick note of thanks on Hogwarts Infirmary paper and Madame promises to convey it by Owl to her later.

All is as usual. Except when it isn't.

"Madame?" Harry settles back, surrounded by a drift of spent tissue wrapping and twisted up ribbons. "Madame, I've a question. What if I have no idea how to go about this? What if this kid—" he pats his bump, which is more a bulge—"doesn't say a word to me, like Healer Zook said it would? What if I never—and, and, _what_?"

There's a catch in his voice, a definite hitch. It's really stupid of him but he's gone and done something he rather swore he wouldn't.

"W-What will happen to Draco if I don't make it through? Will he—will _he_ be all right, in the end? Will he?"


	57. Chapter 57

"Harry, it's the measure of how much a person loves you, isn't it?" McGonagall is normally a very no-nonsense Witch. It's always a surprise to Harry to see the glint of love in her eyes, what she holds for him—that certain constant fondness. He rather imagines his Mum must've looked that way, once. Well…she certainly had in the Mirror and then later, when he was walking by himself for that last little bit. "What they'll do. How far they'll go. And you can never really tell how much or how far that is till it's upon you, that moment."

He's been crying, off and on, but there's no tears to it. It's a lot of rapid blinking and twisting up his lips and biting at them. It's the strangest feeling that it's raining inside his chest, a deluge of bitter water falling, falling. No one would ever guess it, of course, except his eyes are a little bloodshot.

It's been a pain in the arse, avoiding Draco's super-sharp eyes. The git is impossibly curious when it comes to Harry. Impossibly!

"Is there…Is there some particular reason you're enquiring, Harry?" Minerva prods gently. "You know if I may of assistance to you, I will."

"All I hear is my own heartbeat, Minerva," Harry whispers. "That's all I ever hear." They are two adults, and he's no one's charge of duty at this moment. He's her friend, and she his, and they understand one another. Minerva McGonagall won't hug him to her capacious bosom like Pomfrey will, or cluck over him like Hermione, or nag at him as Ron does. "They say I'm to—I should be, but I'm not. I can't hear this voice everyone speaks of. I don't feel anything like extra-super-strong or special or blessed—none of it, Minerva! None of that. I feel—I feel." He humps his shouldes miserably and slides down his seat as far as he's able, stretching his legs out before him like a little kid. A little kid on the dunce stool, like it was ages ago in his old Muggle primary. "I don't know how I feel, except for always, always pretty foul."

"Harry, my dear." Minerva hands him another cup of tea and five chocolate biscuits on a little plate. "Harry, I've never had children of my own, as you know. But in a sense I've had many. Trust me, they do speak to you. They shout, sometimes, and they whinge and they laugh like little hyenas. You may not always hear every word, Harry, but you do learn to sort out the sense of it. Give it time, my boy. It will come."


	58. Chapter 58

"He still looks awful, Potter," Parkinson remarks. "But I suppose that's not your fault, so much."

"Yes, I know," Harry replies. "He's a git and he doesn't listen, either. Mostly I find him very irritating."

"Oh, yes," Parkinson actually skips a little, giggling. "Very irritating! But—Potter?"

"What now?"

"Thanks. For listening."

"Oh, jeezus!" Harry's ears burn; he gulps down a million pithy things he'd like to say to this girl. "Will you just please shut it?"


	59. Chapter 59

One morning they wake up to see the bassinette, plopped right in the centre of the Room. _Not_ where Harry had tucked it away in a rounded corner, nearly obscured by the bulk of their shared wardrobe, no.

"Ho!"

It also begins with a shout. The process of birth, and right in the midst of DADA.

"HAH! Ahah-hah-ha-_aaaiiiii!_ Oh, fuck!** FUCK**."

The Professor is startled, and puzzled eyes turn to Harry, where he's been benched, sitting out the current round due a minor stomach upset. Queasy as fuck and no one cares to witness him vomiting up his breakfast; it's happened before and been just fine. It passes. Like so much else.

This time it isn't, clearly. Not fine at all. NO!

"Oh-my-bloody-Merlin-**MALFOY**!"

Draco's been assigned all the way across the room, sparring with Nott. He drops everything, save his wand, leaps a Jellylegs and ducks a Incarcerous admirably, diverting Nott's wildly careening curses like a trooper with an opalescent bubble of a ward thrown up behind his back as he goes, and comes galloping across the room to Harry's side.

Practically skids into the wall, too. Harry's got a wild-eyed blond Wizard groping and patting at him everywhere in a blink of an eye, really. It's not soon enough, as far as he's concerned.

"Now? Is it now, Harry? Harry!"

Harry nods frantically, speechless with pain. The sort of pain one literally cannot express politely.

"FUCK. HELL. GODDAMN! JEEEEZUS!" he gasps harshly, and Draco's springing up on his feet and shouting over him.

"Professor, it's time! It's Potter's time! We have to—it's Plan B! Plan B!" His eyes march round the room and all the students there jerk to instant attention. "**Plan B**, you scrummy lot," he roars. "Have at it!"

There's a lovely thing about boarding schools and magical schools in general: everyone always knows what's going down with everyone else. The students are ready and primed; Greengrass has already bolted for the door to head to McGonagall's office, to alert her, Nott goes tearing out to rouse Pomfrey out of her Infirmary and the rest lower their wands and begin chanting in unison.

_Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus._

Yes. _Draco Dormiens_ and all that.

The Founders were a bunch of loons, but eminently powerful ones, and it's a funny little catch-clause they've built into it, this institution of academe for Wizards and Witches. It's a spell, a singular spell, designed on occasion to summon every ounce of magic from every inch of mortar, block and beam. To focus it, for the complete protection of the life within. All the Heads of Hogwarts have been privy to this little gem and McGonagall, being a particularly practical one, had decided wisely some months ago the students should as well. Just in case. As it's Harry Potter.

All the Life within its walls, Hogwarts will protect—even the ones not quite born yet.

Draco rolls his eyes at the sudden cacophony—it's horrid—and instantly paces three times this way and three times that, in a tight little circle before the wall Harry's gingerly propped against, utterly dead parchment in colour and gasping harshly.

"I want Potter's Room," he growls under his breath at the tight layers of mortared granite. "Harry's Room, Harry's Room, give it me, Castle!"

No one is at all shocked when a gaping wide doorway appears in the blank expanse of stone. Draco has Harry up and whisked through it in an instant. As he's helping him to bed—kept Transfigured that recently, just in case—he knows that far below him in the Castle proper a chain of students is growing, the eldest first. Like a great long serpent, they'll coil and wind their way up the steep steps of Fluffy's old tower, clasping hands, one to another, and either Granger or Weasley or Pansy will lead them, whoever's the closest; it doesn't matter. And the last one in that line will grasp at the knob to Harry's Room and wish for something. Something special.

A Requirement, the greatest of all of them, ever in the power of Hogwarts to provide. The students, they the blood of it, the stones the bones of it. And Harry the shouting writhing cauldron of it and Draco the living divining rod.

And Zook will come running, summoned by Headmistress, and he'll reach right into Harry's insides, through to his expanded gut, straight on through the skin and blood and so on, and use those so capable hands of his to draw out the child for which the old bassinette awaits.

Draco knows all of this; he's helped plan it. Which doesn't stop him from feeling a little hysterical. He's sobbing aloud for the one thing and he just doesn't do that. Much.

He's also talking away, mouth moving constantly, saying this and that, whatever strikes him as being what Harry needs to hear.

There's a lot of 'Episky! _Fucking_ Episky!' to be heard ringing out round the Room in a tortured mash-up of the Malfoy drawl and any number of fairly useless 'Revivicus!' shouted.

"Come on, Harry—come on! Stay with me, _stay._ Oh fucking bloody fuck, keep those eyes open, won't you? Bloody Episky! Here, lie down—here's a pillow, a pillow! Shoes—fucking shoes off! Bloody laces!"

And Harry? Harry's calling Draco all manner of really rotten epitaphs, 'Wanker!' and 'Twat!' and 'Fucker!' being the least of them, but they've not once lost sight of each other, and what their eyes speak of silently, brilliantly, has nothing to do with hate nor blame nor anger.

It's got nothing to do with shagging, either, and Harry and Draco have certainly eye-fucked one another any number of different occasions to date—no. This is naught with shagging, what passes between the wet wide green and the watering intense grey this time.

Draco's never said it aloud; he might never. Harry certainly hasn't.

'I love you', though. 'I cannot exist without you; please don't leave, please don't go'.

_It's ever so simple._

"I love you and I want you and I need you—please don't go. Stay for me, don't ever leave.'

_So fucking obvious._

'You are my world, my Room, my life. Don't go. Don't ever let me go, for I'll die without you and I'll want it that way.'

_There's no denying._

'I love you. I would never, I'm right here. Count on it, trust me on that. Breathe now, in and out, just like that. Because I can't breathe without you. I do so love you—I'll only ever love _you_.'

_And a blink is only an exclamation point in this conversation._

'No, it's all right, I'm all right! Only hold on, hang on to me, look at me always, only to me, and we'll be—we'll be—'

'Together, and never—'

'Leave go. My—'

'My love.'

'**Love**.'


	60. Chapter 60

"Strip down, Mr Malfoy? Yes, everything off. Thank you," Healer Zook is white-coated, ruffled of hair and completely unflappable despite it. And he's smiling, a very assured and professional smile that's infinitely reassuring to Draco. "And then just pop into the bed, if you please, but in such a position as you'll be holding Mr Potter before you—that's it. Between your knees, just in that manner. As if you were his armchair, say? Oh, perfect."

Time is a stretchy rubber of a thing, and Harry has fallen to a tense silence, the fingers and thumbs of both hands spread wide on either side of his great belly, and his teeth bared in a furious grimace.

"It's all right, it's all right," Draco croons, tucking his burning eyes into Harry's hair. It's sticking up and out and all cattywhumpus, and he can just discern the shocking sapphire-orange of raw pure magic dancing down Potter's goose-pimpled flesh. He tightens his own chilled and very naked arms and thighs and shins about his beloved's lumpy ramrod-stiff body and whispers some idiocy into Harry's hair about how Harry's perfect—he's ace—he'll be as brilliant at this as he is on a broom. How Draco cannot wait till they're flying again. And how always—

"I'm right with you, I'll help you—_anything_, Harry—"

"Yes, as a matter of fact you will, Mr Malfoy." Healer Zook evidently is as good as he claims to be; he calmly ignores all their small shiftings and Harry's nearly muffled little 'eeps' and 'ouches!' and keeps his bespectacled gaze fixed firmly on Harry's suspiciously narrowed one.

"Get on!" Harry snarls at Healer through a snap of teeth. "Get _on_, you great bas—"

"_Harry_!"

"Yes, yes. Understood! Now, Mr Potter, I am going to incant two spells right at this particular moment, if you'll try to listen to me closely? Follow along—yes, good, thank you. The first will allow you to sleep—doze off, rather, quite quickly—as this can be a little disconcerting for our first time fathers to witness. The second will stabilize your internal organs and the sac that protects the infant and allow me to enter your abdomen safely to bring the little one out. All right? May we proceed?"

"**GODS**—fuck—please—_y-yes_!"

At Harry's faint nod, the wand in Healer's hand waves and bobs. Draco hears him spew out a whole string of Latin he's only vaguely familiar with from his intensive research. Suffice to say it's leagues beyond his simple Episkys of moments before. He tightens his grasp on Harry nonetheless, seeking to send all the pulses of his overwhelming urge to comfort him straight through his own skin and into Harry's.

"Harry!" he mutters urgently, because Harry's going to sleep any second now and Draco has to tell him. He _must_. "Harry, I'm here, I'm here with you. Never letting go, okay? Harry?"

He's subject to one searing, searching stare before Harry's eyes close dreamily and his head lolls back against Draco's nude chest.

It's enough. It's more than enough. To go on with. Draco squares his shoulders against the mounded up pillows and grits his teeth in readiness.

"Zook!" He glances up to meet Healer Zook's eyes directly. "You do know exactly what you're doing here? You're sure of it?"

"I do," Healer grins. "And you may observe me all the way through, Mr Malfoy, to ensure there's no mistakes made—not that there will be. In fact, you must need help us a little, along the way. Yes, indeed."

Draco grinds his teeth, hard enough to feel them scraping together. Yes, Harry's quite correct in his guesswork: Zook _must_ be a Slytherin alumni.

Healer, meanwhile, has donned a very thin pair of opaque gauntlets and a set of focusing goggles. He snaps them into place, grins again at Draco and says, "Let's crack on, shall we?"

"For fu—yes! _Please_!"

It's fascinating, really. If it weren't that it's Harry, Draco would be all agog. But it is, so it's grim and strained and quite horrible to witness. Worse than almost any awful moment Draco's survived through before—worse even than seeing old Dumbledore fall.

But it's amazingly bloodless, all of it. No gore, no shrieks of pain—nothing but the constant low mutter of Zook steadily incanting away and Draco's own labored breathing.

A bubble springs up all across Harry's belly. Clearly it's some sort of shield spell. But Healer makes no incisions, none at all. He simply lays his wand down in the sizzling air directly above Harry's pushed out navel and thrusts two hands straight through the bubble and straight through—shockingly—Harry's stretched-taut skin. Draco gazes, horrified, as his wrists turn about nimbly; the man seems to be rooting about in there. Inside Potter—inside his Harry.

Draco's stomach churns vaguely; he gulps back a sour taste of bile. There's the taste of magic on his tongue as well. This is it, the grand and most final moment of truth, and he can feel it all through him, every molecule.

"Mr Malfoy, if you would?" Healer's voice draws Draco back to himself with a start. "Right, then. I'd like it very much if you would be so kind as to sing a little ditty for me, right now. 'Sleep, Baby, Sleep'—you remember that one, right? Very old, that lullaby—exceptionally potent, too, fortunately for us Healers. Ah, I see you do. Excellent, very good. Do begin."

Draco parts his lips. This is completely absurd. Entirely unreal. He clears his throat because it's feeling clogged and croaky.

"_Sleep, baby, sleep. Thy father watches the sheep. And tendeth the lambs_—" His voice is scratchy to begin with but soon evens out as he goes on. And though his mind might be playing tricks on him, it does seem like Harry's expression has relaxed into a deep restful sleep state. Indeed, all of Harry is very relaxed and the Healer has a giant handful of something incredibly vile in appearance and drippy.

The ooze drips from it, whatever it may be, but the spots never reach the bedding, evaporating almost on notice.

"Excellently well done, Mr Malfoy," Healer Zook murmurs, nodding pleasantly at his handful, which abruptly disappears. In his other hand there's what looks to be a rope of raw meat, which he's manipulating somehow. Both hands plunge back into Harry before Draco can seek out any further disgusting vivid details. "Nearly there, now. You may naturally substitute 'Father' for the mention of 'Mother' in this one, please. Much more appropriate. Do continue; don't mind me."

Ridiculous, insane—and fucking bloody effective. Healer is withdrawing his hands, ever so slowly. There's two tiny feet poking up above the carefully knuckled grip of one of them.

Draco blinks at them, still managing somehow to sing, though his heart's literally stuck fast in his tonsils, throbbing.

"_Up on yonder hill. But_—ah! Oh gods, he's—_Harry_! Harry, he's a boy—a boy!"

Harry's made a boy! A baby boy! Tiny all over, fragile and delicate—and perfect. Ever so perfect; he's a _boy_. They've a son. They've made a son. Of their very own. Draco's jaw drops open in utter wonder.

He's completely dazed and dazzled.

"Ahem, Mr Malfoy!" Healer scolds, still bringing the child out of Harry's beautifully unmarred stomach. Harry sighs under the movement of his hands but doesn't stir an inch. "Do _not _cease your singing! Keep on, man! It's very important you do."

"Ah—ahah! Sorry! Yes, yes—er? Ah! '_But Father watches one dearer still_.'" Draco barely has a voice left to sing with, but he won't stop, he shan't stop, not now. "_Sleep, baby, sleep. Thy father watches the sheep. And tendeth the lambs. Up yonder hill. But Father watches_—"

"And here we are at last, yes?" A bloodied and mucus-slimy infant is laid ever so gently across the curve of Harry's gently rising and falling chest. The baby, just like his birth father, is fast asleep and breathing peacefully. It's all Draco can do not to instantly reach for it, for him, this beautiful new him, and touch that minute and snub nose, that wisp of white blond, the fingers that seem to be more the size of a doll's than any Wizarding child's. "You may cease now, thank you. Well done, Mr Malfoy. Do say hullo, won't you?"

"Oh. My."

Draco's of course got Harry, and then somehow Harry's hands and arms are slipping up, creeping up to cradle their baby, even as he's still sleeping so Draco thinks is utterly—

"—brilliant!—"

It is absolutely beyond doubt one the most beautiful sights Draco has ever seen, this one. His brain reels, attempting desperately to store every tiny part of this image. And his body instinctively gives way a little here and tightens up a little there, nestling two incredibly dear Wizards in the circle of his arms, against the touch of his hands, his trembling and reverent fingers and jellied knee joints. Even down to his bared feet and toes, curling to wrap about Harry's bony shins, his still-swollen ankles.

"Oh, Harry…" And he can barely even see what treasure he holds so close to him, and must blink and blink and remember to breathe, in and out, and to not hyperventilate. It makes it damnably difficult to talk, but speak he must or run mad, as there's so much to say at this glorious moment. "Oh, hullo! Hullo, my sweet. My sweet little boy. Oh, Salazar, Harry! Harry, he's beautiful—ever so beautiful, Harry. Oh, brilliant; he's so small—Harry, gods, Harry, you're wonderful!"

All of that insane scramble of syllables gushing out of Draco's mouth gains him a wide and approving grin from Zook, who's occupied with stripping off his gloves and capably Vanishing them. Just as he's Vanished the sac which came out along with their new son, and the long twisty brilliantly scarlet cord which sustained this precious life all through. The Room and their bed are as clean and neat as a pin, amazingly.

"Oh, as are _you_, Mr Malfoy," he replies, over what can only be a rising and distant cheer, echoing eerily from outside the Room's massive door. Hogwarts has let it be known, apparently. The news is abroad and Wizards and Witches are celebrating. "As are you. Mr Potter—and your new son here?—they couldn't have managed without you. My salutations, sir."

Draco is speechless. Finally. A good thing, because his brain is an utter blank, other than the incredulous spiral of rising delight that fills it. They've done it, he and Harry have done it—they've a son, a son!

"Yes, all right, there. Do inhale, Mr Malfoy. You've gone a tad peaky. That's it—oh, very good! Now? As you see, your lovely family is resting, yes? A little lie-down for you is very much called for, as well, so you may stay right where you are, please. I'll just incant another Charm for you, to allow you to rest comfortably. You'll be on a much more even keel after a little shut-eye. Also, I do believe your dear mother and a Mrs Weasley are anxiously waiting just outside, likely just chomping at the bit for a chance to come and tend to you all for a little while. I'll let them in as I go out, shall I? Excellent! We'll have the three of you over St Mungo's a bit later on in the day, just for a general peer about, of course, but for now—sleep, my dear boy, do sleep. All _is_ well as ends well."

Healer hands off Draco a cheery little salute with his wand, naught but a flick to a silvered temple, but very chipper.

Draco remains blissfully mute as the duvet on their familiar old bed scurries itself up and over, tucking itself in gently about them, all of three of them. The baby—**BABY**!—Draco notes, has been somehow given a wash and brush-up whilst he was blinking or something, as he's all done up and looking like a proper infant should, nappy, swaddling and all.

"Oh, and Mr Malfoy?"

Draco manages to jerk his chin far enough up off Harry's wild head so he can turn his sleep-heavy gaze to follow Healer's progress to the door. The man pauses there for one last instant, to tip Draco a quite saucy wink and grin at him again. Zook's all smiles, so many smiles, and Draco's never seen him quite so approving.

The man must _adore_ children.

Strangely, Draco finds he can relate to that feeling, somehow. He glances proudly down at his new baby—**BABY**!—and at his Potter, still absolutely out like a light and already looking a bit less puffy.

"I will be in the market for an apprentice, strangely enough, at just precisely about the time you are ready to graduate from Hogwarts. Is that not a pleasant coincidence? Do call upon me at my office when the time comes, Mr Malfoy. Good day to you, then. And congratulations!"


	61. Chapter 61

Harry wakes with a smile.

It's been ages since he's done that. It's the first coherent thought he has till the lingering wisps of dreams are blinked away in a flurry of eyelashes and resettling focus. He feels…he feels really rather excellent. Actually.

Draco doesn't snore but he makes this little whistling noise sometimes, mainly because his nose is so pointy—it's not, actually. Harry likes to think it is but it's actually a very nice nose and Draco's face has grown into it over the years; he's a handsome man. He's making that soft little noise now and Harry hears it…and smiles. His gaze zeros in on that face and he's pretty pleased to see it's lax in deep sleep, and there's a little dribble of drool on Draco's lower lip, spilling over to the pillow case. He'll be sure to rib him for it later.

Harry's looking forward to it.

And then his awaking ears detect the tiny puff of yet another breathing individual. Very close by indeed. And a terribly small one, judging by the nearly inaudible huff of that bubbly exhale.

Tucked down between them, with Harry on the one pillow, Draco on the other, and Draco utterly dead to the world, lips curled up at the creased corners and, blessedly, for all fuck's sakes, actually _sleeping,_ but tucked down between the heart-shaped curve of their limp forms and splayed limbs _is_...

Tucked down between them, on a level with their two hearts beating, is a third. _Is _the very one who drove Harry mad, the one he didn't want at first and railed against endlessly. The one he grew accustomed to, and suffered sore feet for, and whose incredibly miniature, incredibly perfect features are relaxed in the peaceful sleep of a descendent cherub. This creature—_this creature_?

He's beautiful.

Harry's heart's gone supernovae in an instant. _Harry's _is. Gone, and there's no returning it.

Transcendently beautiful. There's no need for words, for words don't do him justice. He's utterly perfect, from sparse frill of ice-blond hair to curling fists the size of almonds. Bowed lips, parted perfectly, and the sweetest of cheeks to him—Harry has the overwhelming urge to simply kiss them both pink, suddenly. And that chin? That chin! Barely there, but it's pointy—like Draco's.

Harry sniffs. There's this ineffable fragrance to the air, something…something that draws him, and he's already more than pleased to be pleased.

…He smells of talc, lilac-scented talc, this little one, and of formula. Of infant. _Infant_, newly born, an aroma which should be bottled and sold and would make fortunes if it were. Like puppy breath, only leagues beyond.

He's _darling_. Harry's son. Draco's child.

He's a bloody darling little thief, too, because he's stolen two hearts away already.

Maybe more. When Harry tears his eyes away and glances up, Narcissa Malfoy's there, seated in a rocking chair the Room had never had before now, and smiling at him.

"Happy, darling?"

It's a decent question. Valid, very. Harry looks first to Draco, who's still in LaLa Land somewhere, dreaming happily from the looks of it. Such a cocksure git, such a gorgeous wanker. So…much. So much himself, all over.

Harry thinks he really_ is_. He's pretty sure of it.

Requirement. It's such a many-layered word; there's so much to it. It covers _need_ and_want_ and _desire _like a woolen rug, overlaying them all, catching them up. It gathers warmth as it goes, even in cold places.

Strange places. Newly reborn places, like Hogwarts.

He's lucky, Harry is. He thinks so. Right….well. Not lucky so much as fortuitously derailed. That's likely how Draco Malfoy would state it, he of the exacting phrase.

"I'm…good," Harry smiles in return, a hand drifting gently to cup the round warmth of his own particular angel's scalp. "Pretty fair."

It feels...ever so good, that touch. Better than Frogs. And he's grown to like her, this Narcissa. She's not Molly and she's not his Mum—far from it!—but she's _Draco's_ Mum and she…she appears to be genuinely fond of_ him_. And her eyes are trained on Harry and _not_ the baby, though they flicker, a light blue in shade, but one that changes, to glance off that downy little scalp, now and again, and then back to Harry. He doesn't blame her in the slightest for sneaking peeks; his baby is a heartbreaker, a stealer of hearts—a dazzler. He's beautiful and Harry's feeling so full of himself right now he could burst out in song—but he doesn't.

He doesn't. So, er...yes. Yes?

"I was thinking, Harry, dear, we would put off the wedding ceremony till after you two boys are finished here. Molly agrees with me. Would that…?"

Even Narcissa has learnt not to assume anything when it comes to Harry Potter. But she smiles, gamely, daringly, and Harry knows exactly where his own Malfoy has it from—that certain glitter of the eye, that supremely knowledgeable smirk.

"Would that suit, do you think? High summer? Such a pretty time of year, Harry—all the flowers are in bloom, then. But…p'raps for the Solstice. Or as early as Draco's birthday. Your choice, my dear. You tell _me_."

From the other side of the bed Harry hears a quiet snort. More a huff of indignation, but not particularly offended. It's agreeably familiar, and he sinks into the sound, content.

"Rushing it, Narcissa. I _did_ tell you. Do let up a bit, dear. We're not wanting Harry to bolt._Are_ we?"

They're very hushed, these two Witches, even bickering to-and-fro, back and forth. Harry lets their voices flow over his head and turns his eyes to his child. Again—_perfect_. He's never known such perfection. And from him! This came from him, his own body, and whether it be via deviant method of potion or Slytherin subterfuge or some insane Requirement, he's not complaining. Not anymore—not so much, no.

Harry casts his gaze on Draco, he of the funny little night noises, the whistling sigh. God, but he's fit. Harry wants his cock in him, right up his arse, and he wants it with a newborn passion, but that can wait—can wait. They don't need anyone's Mum watching that! It'll happen.

It'll come later, he's sure. As the sun rises, he's bloody certain. He's not alone in this, dead still in the water. He's got a life raft at the ready—and a cool fit whip-smart bloke who's always up for a fuck.

No. He's _really_ all right, Harry is. Yes, he is. Dead fucking certain of it, actually. Positive, completely.

This bed? Who's in it with him? All this, going on around him? And that man, across from him—and _that_ baby? That perfect, amazing being? His angel? _His_.

_Theirs_.

It…it all feels like _home_.


	62. Chapter 62

Contact.

_Contact_.

Draco had had very little of it, really, in a lifetime. Oh, he remembered the touch of his parent's hands: his mother's, pale and pretty, cool and dry on his shoulder or laid gently at the small of his back; his father's, larger and long-fingered, and firm to the point of painful pressure, at times. Guiding him, steering him, both, and teaching him a silent lesson of the absence of additional contact. That it was prudent, perhaps, not to give too much touch away.

Now he had it, in abundance. From the feel of the plush upholstered pillows at his back, slippery and soft where his thin jersey had ridden up, exposing spine and waist, to the warmth flowing into his arms and thighs and knees—even down to his narrow feet and ankles, where they met and matched Harry's. From the pads of his fingertips, lightly laid across an eggshell thin skull covered with downy white-blond peach fuzz, and the tickle of straw silk in his nose from Harry's rumpled hair, to the quiet heave of rising and falling ribs caught between the cage of Draco's elbows, to the sag of Harry's bent knees, cradled carefully within the arc of his own.

Contact. Senses overflowing with it, so that all his ears could hear was the sound of three sets of lungs breathing—two full-size and one very small—in time, and the crackle of the fire against the chill of a night in April. The muted whisper of fabric: their infant son's feather-soft cotton swaddling and the denim rubbing from Harry's Muggle jeans and his own where they met; the woven wool-and-silk of their two sweaters, tiny loops of thread catching and releasing with every breath and every muffled sound of sleep.

Contact. Black hair and a blond almost invisible; skin as pale as white rose petals and skin as fine-grained as satin and burnished with faint gold. All present and accounted for, available to the touch, when and as Draco desired it. And so very warm, all of that, with the three of them radiating body heat to the chill night air: they hardly needed the baby's blanket Molly Weasley had provided, or the knitted throw the Headmistress had presented, now tangled 'round their bare feet.

Sight. Almost as good as touch; a feast for the eyes. Fans of eyelashes—one sooty-dark and the other nearly translucent, full and spreading across faintly blue-shadowed hollows-Harry's, of course, as he still tired so easily ; the other short and curling, fluttering moth-like as their son squirmed a barest millimeter this way and that, securely buoyed up in Harry 's arms—and Draco's, beyond that. Draco watched them move with musing eyes, and was in silent awe: each individual lash a thread of perfection. He knew, too, what jewels they hid, under thinnest shields of parchment skin: green as deep as as polished malachite or sometimes a sparkling, vivid emerald, Harry's. Their son's eyes were startlingly lighter, reflecting shades of teal and aquamarine as they changed, but his unfocussed pale blue gaze was gradually sharpening, even in the space of a night. One day, they'd be as dark and deep as his father's: a changeable forest of emotion, twiggy branches snagging Draco's very soul.

Odour. Half-asleep, Draco smelt smoke from the fire, applewood scented; citrusy shampoo and aftershave from Harry's lolling head as it shifted against his jaw and neck. Talcum and sweet-sour milk from the baby and, overlaying it all, the faint whiff of brandy fumes rising invisible from their set-aside balloon glasses, as the aged liquid evaporated in the shared heat of the fire. Contact: warm, and warm, and hot, deep in its core. More even than the muted crackle of the fire or the cloth and fabric cocooning them.

Contact.

Harry sighed in his sleep, dreaming perhaps, and turned his head ever so slightly, aping the fragile movements of the baby he held, propped safely within his so-careful arms and the snug space his drawn-up legs made his lap. Draco shifted as well, adjusting; tightening an arm here, a hand there: constant contact. Contact made; contact maintained.

Magical, that. He'd not known it could be something to revel in till Hogwarts, and that had merely been body-to-body. He'd not realized the effect upon the whole of him until just shy of a year ago, and he'd never thought, never even considered, that he might become so dependent upon it: upon this, _this_ particular source of it, held so very carefully now he'd managed to grasp it and keep firm hold. He'd not known that he'd choose death willingly in the absence of it, contact.

Contact.

No! _Requirement_.


	63. Chapter 63

This is where I make all my bows and apologies. There are many, I'm sure; take them as read for the loose ends and the things I let you assume and will likely never fully explain. For the myriad mistakes and the OOC'ness, the lack of a name for this baby. And to at least explain to you that I wrote this last chapter as a stand-alone epilogue something like light-years ago, so it's startling different in style than the intervening 50 plus and I'm sorry for that if you don't think it goes with. But I hope it was all right for you, really, as this tale was always meant as a Gift. For **vaysh11**, for **easilymused1956**, for **demicus**, for all my very lovely Friends, come Christmas tide. It may very well be the longest lasting Advent series ever, spanning two full years in the writing of it, my loves, and nearly 60 days elapsed to post, real-time, but it's for you. Yes, _you_. Happy Holidays and a very Merry New Year, with smishes and kisses, from Tiger. Thank you for your incredible support, all these years. Couldn't have made it through without you!

And, hey, hey, fanfiction site mates? atlantis51 and a whole great Whomping lot of others, you have consistently made my day, over and over. I do enjoy handing you some 'happy'. I hope I managed this time, loves. Cheers! Tiger


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